Guardian Angel
by manic-intent
Summary: ..Complete.. After DMC, Jack finds himself in Heaven through a 'clerical error'. To prove himself worth of Heaven, he has to accept guardianship of a certain Commodore... Slash, [sparrington].
1. Heaven

Author's Note: Re: the plotbunny for Guardian Angel – I watched that rather ridiculous Sylvester vs Jerry cartoon about it (which continued the basics of this plot in the first place). I haven't, however, seen City of Angels or Michael, and don't intend to in the near future. Not sure if this has been done before, but I just felt it would be absolutely hilarious. XD And, no religious disagreements, please. This is a fic written for fun, to be classified humor, and I freely admit to being atheist. Updates will probably be slower… busy.

Chapter 1

Heaven

"I'm beginnin' t'think I'm in th'wrong area, mate."

It was like something out of a rum-soaked dream, perhaps after far too many Church services or bible studies. In the space between his last consciousness of being 'aware' (giant squid-monsters with terrible charnel-breath) and 'now', Jack could only feel a large gap in his memories – perhaps thankfully, if it had involved any sort of business of being chewed up and eaten. Eheh. 'Now', however, seemed to involve a vast sunlit plain of… clouds, which felt solid under his feet, shifting gently, in an odd mockery of the sea. A massive golden gate hinged to two pillars of white marble, ornate with decorations that seemed to attempt to depict every single creature under Heaven. Which was, presumably, where this was.

Tricorn hat – check. Sea urchin spine, beaded hair, dreadlocks, sash – check. Shirt, vest, coat, boots… rings, sword, and pistol – all present. No horrible wounds that might suggest how he died (though given the manner of it, he could guess). Also, a little annoyingly, he was sparkly clean. Fingernails were absolutely clear of dirt for the first time since he could remember, and his clothes smelled… starched.

There was a queue towards the gate, and Jack had been unable to stop himself from following – it was an irresistible compulsion. A curious mixture of individuals of mixed races from different walks of life (here one in beggar's rags, there another in noble's finery) their faces caught mostly in expressions of rapturous wonder (scary). Fidgeting, Jack had waited his turn up until he faced the bearded angel standing at the white marble podium before the Gate.

Definitely an angel. White, trimmed beard. Halo (not really a golden circle over the head, but behind it, its spokes carved with detail far beyond mortal comprehension). Folded, massive white wings, the primary feathers extending past the clouds. White robe. Currently looking a little confused, as he checked a long scroll. The queue was being held up – all those before him had been processed with a smile and a benediction.

"Um. Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Yep. Er. Ye sure there hasn't been a mix-up? Not that m'complainin', y'know, just that it seems mighty odd t'me."

"Er… this is highly, _highly_ irregular." The angel looked apologetic, glancing at Jack over the edge of the scroll. "There's probably some sort of clerical mistake. You're… um, listed for acceptance into Heaven, but looking at your… remarkable record, I can't help but wonder if there's been, um, like I said, a clerical mistake of the highest order."

Jack grinned, actually highly tickled over the situation. He wasn't sure, at this point, whether he really wanted to go to Heaven – his vaguest idea about the issue being something along the lines of playing harps and singing praises – not exactly the most amusing sorts of past-times. On the other hand, if he had to place a bet which place would most likely have rum and debauchery, it'd be Hell. Ignoring the question of eternal torture and penance, and such.

Besides, outside of the 'remarkable record' of indiscretions and sin, Jack was also fairly sure that he had never given the issue of whether there was a Higher Power any more thought than occasionally using His name in vain, usually in the midst of performing said indiscretions and sin. He guessed he actually _did_ believe in said higher power (not difficult, when in one's career one had faced undead pirates and various degrees of the supernatural)… but he didn't exactly _worship_ him, per se.

"So… what ye be doin' wi' old Jack, now? There be lots o' people waitin' t'get approved behind me, see, an' I don't want t'be any trouble." Cheerfully. "Mebbe ye just return me t'Earth fer th'time bein'? Say, alive, an' nowhere near giant monsters o' th'squid persuasion?"

"No, that'd be even _more_ irregular. Um. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I'd have to consult with my colleagues. Excuse me." The angel pressed some sort of golden button on his podium. Far away, behind the gate (although all Jack could see behind it was more clouds – though those before him had just vanished when passing through) there was the faint sound of a bell.

Another angel abruptly appeared next to the one at the podium – a woman, with very curly, shoulder-length brown hair – no halo. They spoke musically, in a language that Jack didn't understand, gesturing occasionally at him. The woman grimaced, then vanished again. The first angel shot Jack another apologetic grin. "Sorry. Um. Could you wait at the side for a while? It'd be sorted out."

Jack sat down next to the podium, on the oddly fluffy, soft ground, and watched as a baker, a fisherman, a nun and a small boy dressed finely in ermine passed through the closed golden gates. He ran his eyes down the line, studying the differing faces of humanity, and noting that there was, indeed, a definite skew in favor of the middle classes or lower, as compared to the nobility. And several members of other races, of which were unlikely to believe in Christianity. Odd. The angel, however, was busy, and didn't seem inclined to answer questions – after a few attempts, Jack just gave up.

After another handful of people were processed, the female angel appeared again, and spoke to the first one. Who nodded, and passed her Jack's scroll. She then turned to Jack. "Captain Jack Sparrow?"

He got to his feet. "That's me."

"Sorry about all this. My name's Alisa. I have to take you to the offices to resolve the issue." She held out one small, bronzed hand, as her wings spread.

"It's a wee bit unexpected," Jack ventured, as he put his palm in her hand. "Th'bureaucracy, that is."

Alisa's lips moved into a faint grin. "I know. Some souls are quite shocked by it. But usually, it works a treat. We haven't had any clerical errors for the last hundred years."

"So what causes these… errors?" Jack asked, then yelped as the landscape blurred, like a thumb smudging a wet painting. He gripped the oddly cool hand tightly as the melting colors reformed into a white marble waiting area – with angels seated on benches that lined the circular walls, under gorgeous paintings of scenes on Earth. There were two archways, at their apex carved doves with outstretched wings – one leading out into a dizzying drop of elegant silver buildings interspersed with intricate glass archways and graceful towers. Another angel, a chubby male, with wispy blonde hair and nondescript features sat at a table, looking up when they appeared, giving them a nod then indicating some seats with a wave. The other archway was curtained off.

Jack and Alisa sat where they were pointed. Wings folded themselves carefully around her, primary feathers brushing at the ground, as she leaned back against the smooth wall. "I'm not sure. There's a theory that clerical errors inevitably occur in the procedure of mass processing of souls, in sorting. And, of course, for some souls it is difficult to judge whether they are to be sent to Hell, Purgatory or Heaven. Another theory is that it is simply part of the Divine Plan, in some way."

"Oh. What'd ye think?" Jack felt, all in all, that he wasn't experiencing some sort of hysterical mental breakdown. Getting to Heaven, and being a clerical error, and now sitting in an office in what was very obviously the Silver City.

"I prefer the Divine Plan theory myself," Alisa said, twiddling at her thumbs, Jack's scroll across her lap. "I find it hard to accept that there would be clerical errors from the fault of angels. As much as most of us nowadays used to be human, and still have human tendencies, it's disturbing that there'd be mistakes from the likes of us, with such potentially disastrous consequences." Another apologetic glance. "I'm really sorry. You know, you're taking this really well. The last soul we had with a clerical error, he kept swinging between being fury and hysterics. Lots of histrionics."

Jack snorted, looking out of the exit. Occasionally, angels flew by. He was in Heaven by mistake, and neurotic bureaucratic angels were apologizing to him. Surreal. "No, no. M'really don't mind, luv. It's been… educational. An' it's a good change from bein' et by giant beasties."

"I see you were a pirate," Alisa patted the scroll, grinning, reassured by Jack's apparent lack of ire. "How was that like?" A pause, then quickly, "Not that I'm condoning thievery and violence, of course."

"It was freedom, luv," Jack said, with a faint smile at fragmenting memories, then frowned as something occurred to him. "D'ye just accept human souls? Or, say, non human spirits?"

"We do, on occasion. Why?" Alisa asked, puzzled. She consulted the scroll briefly – Jack peeked, but the silvery script was also in a language he did not understand – all curls, dots and arches. "Oh. I suppose you're asking after your _Black Pearl_. No, she's not in any of the afterlifes. I'm not even sure that she can die – she's really more of an idea than a soul." A pause. "It's a little hard to explain in English."

"Ah." Jack blinked, wondering if he should feel relieved or not. "D'ye know where she is, now?"

"I could find out," Alisa ventured helpfully, "If you end up in Purgatory or Heaven. I'm afraid I'd be persona non gratis in Hell."

"What do ye do here? Customer service?"

"In essence," Alisa looked up as an angel walked out of the curtain and flew out of the building. "I'm technically a junior negotiator. I help resolve problems."

"There be problems in Heaven?" Jack grinned.

"Sometimes," Alisa admitted. "But not often. And most of the time, they're just very minor disputes. Usually I help handle the larger disputes to do with the jurisdiction of Hell."

"Aren't both sides at war?"

"Technically," Alisa agreed. "But the Divine Plan doesn't include armaments and actual battles, at the moment."

Jack was about to ask about that, his curiosity piqued, when the angel at the counter called to them. Alisa got to her feet, and patted Jack's shoulder. "Our turn."

--

The office they were ushered into looked terribly English. Dour mahogany furniture, elaborate carpets and stately oil paintings. Heavily stacked bookshelves. Heavy curtains. One could almost forget about all the white marble. The occupant at the bulky, rectangular desk, however, was dressed in a plain white robe, though there was something about his manner and bearing that marked him differently from Alisa. In this radiantly perfect being, there was no hint at all that he had ever been human. In one hand he held a white rose with petals that scattered endlessly, yet disappeared at once when they touched the desk or the ground. Instead of one pair of white wings, he had three, somehow managing to fold all behind him.

"Archangel Barachiel," Alisa pressed her palms together and touched her nose to the tips of her fingers, in greeting. He nodded at her, then at Jack.

"Jack Sparrow."

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow," Jack corrected, out of habit.

Barachiel absently pushed one slender hand through straight, long silver hair. "Captain Sparrow, then. Your case has been considered, and it appears there has been much… disagreement as to whether you should be allowed into Heaven." Dryly. "It seems that some of my colleagues have been following your progress on Earth with much interest for the last three decades or so of your life, and they argued that in your case, it would be the greater wrong for you to pass into the Inferno, seeing as there is a general consensus that you are a good man."

Jack could feel his ego growing at an alarming rate. Fans in heaven – who'd have thought it? He grinned impishly, and fluttered his fingers. "'Tis easy t'warm up t'me."

"However, you have managed to just about break nearly every Commandment in the Holy Book over the course of your life," Barachiel continued blithely, taking the scroll from Alisa. "And allowing you into Heaven could be the start of an unnecessary and inconvenient precedent."

"So… what'd ye be doin'?" Jack asked, blinking. Thievery – check. Not respecting his parents… check. Thou shalt not kill… check. No other Gods… well, that one he hadn't broken, purely because he hadn't exactly thought about it. Taking the Lord's name in vain, check. Adultery… check. He couldn't remember the others, but figured that six out of ten was pretty good.

"After some debate, we've all managed to come to a compromise," Barachiel said pleasantly, as if he were discussing the growth rate of daffodils rather than the concept of the rest of Jack's existence, waving his rose absently in the pirate's direction. "You'd be given an amount of time to prove yourself. That you're worthy of Heaven."

"An' this amount of time, bein'?"

"To be determined by an consortium of angels, but not to be known to you," Barachiel tapped at the scroll with the rose.

"An' this manner o' provin' meself?"

To his side, Jack could hear Alisa gasp. Apparently something very unorthodox had just occurred – probably to do with how his scroll had just changed from rolled parchment to finely tooled silver. He didn't understand what _that_ meant, however… then blinked when he shifted his weight to his other foot, out of human habit.

There was an odd sort of… resistance, behind him.

Twisting his head to look over his shoulder, Jack gaped at the sight of two white wings, sprouting from his back. He tried to move one. Muscles he had never had clenched, and the wing flexed. Jack turned back to stare at Barachiel, in uncomprehending shock. "Ye did _what_?"

"The task of starting you in the manner of proving yourself fell to me, as chief of the guardian angels," Barachiel put the silver scroll down on his desk. "Congratulations, Captain Sparrow. You are now, temporarily, a guardian angel."

"Of what?" Sparrow managed to sputter. "And doin' what?"

"An individual whom you wronged very much in the last year or so of your life, Captain Sparrow," Barachiel said, snapping his fingers. Parchment and quill appeared before him, and he wrote something on it. "His last angel had to be reassigned some time back, as we were running short in Cathay. After that, it seemed, mayhem broke loose over his life, most of which to do with you. You're to… guard him. Protect him, answer his prayers, offer guidance. By the end of the unspecified time, if the consortium is satisfied with your performance, you will be accepted into Heaven, instead of the limbo of Purgatory or the torment of the Inferno."

"An' who's this individual?" Jack asked suspiciously.

The whelp. It had to be the whelp, Bootstrap's whelp. William Turner. Jack supposed he could be of help, since he was fairly sure the boy was still bent on some misbegotten attempt to help his father.

Barachiel had settled back in his chair, and he twirled the rose dismissively. "Alisa will show you, and teach you a few basics. You may go."

A smaller scroll appeared in Alisa's hands, which she opened and read, then she pulled Jack out of the office before he could ask any further questions.

--

"M'not jumpin'!" Jack clung to the archway, looking down into a dizzying drop.

Alisa hovered outside, rolling her eyes. "It's easy. You'd know instinctively what to do. And besides, you're already dead, Captain Sparrow. It can't hurt." A pause. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"An' that's s'posed t'be reassurin'?" Jack could feel the breeze from up here, tugging at his beaded hair.

"Oh, come on. You have to get on with your new duties, and I have work to do too," Alisa said persuasively, beckoning. "Just flap. And don't look down until you're sure you can handle it."

With a lot of grumbling, and to the background of badly stifled laughter from the angels watching in the waiting room, Jack stepped out into thin air. And plummeted with a yelp. Alisa rolled her eyes, and dived.

"Don't think too hard about it," she advised, keeping in pace with the pirate, who was pinwheeling his hands and flailing his wings.

"M'not s'posed t'think too much 'bout how it's goin' t'hurt when I hit th'ground?" Jack yelled, over the roar of the wind in his ears, holding on tightly to his hat out of pure reflex.

"Okay. Look. Flatten out your wings to either side. You should glide." Alisa demonstrated, banking up into the air.

Exerting all his self-control, Jack forced his brain not to think too much about said previously non-existent muscles. Wings pulled him out of his drop, feathers ruffling as a breeze pulled him up – the moving air oddly pleasant, tingling. Wings wider than the span of his body. Marveling at the miracle, Jack nearly crashed headlong into a spire, clinging on to one of its elaborately carved winged lions with a harsh gasp, wings flaring for balance.

Alisa hovered next to him, poking an arm, her face scrunched up as she obviously fought an overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. Jack pouted. "T'aint _funny_, luv. An' I don't see why this is so necessary. Can't ye just snap yer fingers an' take me t'this new place?"

"The wings are a symbol of your newfound status, Captain Sparrow," Alisa said, perching on the head of the lion Jack was holding on to. "And in this place, symbols have power. You'd need to master them, in order to move around the way I can, amongst other things. Teleportation. Healing. Stuff like that." A pause. "Little miracles that don't look like divine intervention of any sort. No water into wine miracles, they hate that."

"Any rules I should know of?" Jack asked, as he attempted to pull himself up onto the lion, boots kicking at a stone haunch ineffectively. "An'… a little help here, luv."

Alisa ignored the latter plea for aid. "Well – unless there's an exception, you're not supposed to show yourself to the person you're protecting. You also can't really aid him directly – just put suggestions into his mind, or make sure if he trips he doesn't fall onto sharp rocks, that sort of thing. It really depends – guardians get a lot of discretion. That's really all you need to know."

"So what makes a good… guardian?"

"Someone who only interferes enough to help, but not to make the other person rely on 'luck' as he or she sees it. Who aids in the development of the charge, accepting that he or she must sometimes, out of necessity, be hurt. Ultimately, to ensure that the charge is able to forge his or her happiness." Alisa grinned, her eyes far away for a moment. "I was a guardian angel, once."

"Then?"

"I got promoted," she shrugged one shoulder. "They only rank higher than cherubs." She reached down, and tickled Jack's sides.

Jack yelped, and lost his grip. Thankfully, this time he remembered how to glide, before he hit the sharp-looking tip of another spiral. Alisa drew level with him, laughing, and then took herself higher with a little flip of a wing.

--

It took a few more false starts before Jack felt a little more confident. He was comfortable in the middle of a wild storm on the sea, but not miles up in the air. Dead as he may be, at the moment, and likely a long way up (if one held to that theory) from the sea. Not a reassuring thought. "Where're we goin'?"

"To one of the exits to Heaven," Alisa replied, running her eyes over the patterns of streets, headed apparently to a set of five pillars in the distance, set as the points of a star. "It'd take you to the person you're supposed to guard. Then you can, well, start with the guardianship. Now that you can fly I'm sure everything else will come naturally to you – it tends to."

Jack risked a glance downwards. On evenly paved streets men and women in differing types of clothing walked leisurely, occasionally conversing with each other or with passing angels. There were none of the usual signs of an actual human city – no refuse, no commerce. The buildings appeared mostly to have no entrances from the ground level, especially the spirals – archways were set high above the ground. "No housin'?"

"What do souls need of rest?" Alisa asked, with a faint grin.

"Then what do they do all day?"

"Contemplate the eternal wonder of the Lord. Socialize with other souls. Enjoy the music of infinity. At least, that's what the souls who are sent to the City itself are content to do," Alisa waved at a passing angel, who nodded and winked at her. "Some others who envisage more unorthodox Heavens are elsewhere. The nature of Heaven, after all, is to reward."

"Ah. I was getting a wee bit worried, there." Jack looked over to his right, where at the center of the silver city was a massive palace, its domed tip higher than all the spirals, gleaming in the sun – gold, precious gems, mother-of-pearl. "An' God is there?"

"God is everywhere, Captain Sparrow," Alisa said absently. "But that is where the throne of Heaven is – or at least, its manifestation. It too, technically, is everywhere."

Jack was reminded of exactly why he hadn't gone to many church services at all (save the impersonation bit). Religion tended to spiral in on itself, and hurt his brain with circular logic. Wisely, however, he kept his opinions to himself, as they landed with varying degrees of grace on the top of one of the towers. Painted onto the flat, circular ground was a mandala of mind-numbing complexity – circles, patterns, symbols and flowing script that Jack could not read.

"Good luck," Alisa said, careful, Jack saw, to stand on the edge of the tower. "I wish you well, and I hope we meet again. Remember, you're supposed to be invisible. Just think 'invisible'. Easy."

"Wait… so, m'just s'posed t'guard Will Turner? That's all I'd be… judged on?"

Alisa frowned a little, just as the mandala began to glow disturbingly, the black paint turning silver, the circles beginning to revolve. "Will Turner? Who?"

Smudged paintings.

--

Jack bit out an oath as he reappeared in a room with a balcony, reeling. Stone walls, and a view of a very familiar harbor. No ornaments at all to the room – only very neat cabinets choked with paper, books stacked in alphabetical order on top of them. Several neatly tied and stacked scrolls on another cabinet, held in place by a tiny model of a battleship in a glass bottle. A desk, everything in perfect order – quills to a side, inkbottle at a corner, blotting paper, neat stacks of correspondence bearing the seal of the Royal Navy, held down by a mahogany sword case.

He began to develop a horrible suspicion in his gut.

Muttering to himself about a poor divine sense of humor, he peered more closely at said correspondence, and then moved the sword case, picking up the first dispatch. And hastily put it back down as the door opened, scrambling for the balcony.

Think 'invisible'. Right.

Commodore James Norrington walked into the room, shouldering off his brocade coat and dumping it on the rack, followed by his hat. The man looked bone-weary as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, head tilted back, taking deep, slow breaths. Fists clenched at his side, then uncurled, and he stalked over to the desk, slumping in the chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. And stilled, frowning.

Jack grimaced. He'd forgotten to replace the sword case on the papers.

Norrington picked up the case, then glanced at the papers. The case was placed back on the desk, soundlessly, and Norrington drew his pistol, looking around himself sharply. Jack pressed himself against the rail, ignoring the uncomfortable pull on feathers, even as the other man stepped out into the balcony. Glances upwards, then over the rail.

Jack let out the breath he had been holding in (habits, it seemed, died hard), and relaxed. Passed a ringed hand in front of Norrington's frowning face. Grinned wickedly when there was no response. "Well, I'd be."

Norrington stalked back to his desk, walking around it, then headed to the door, speaking sharply to the guard outside. "Was anybody in my office?"

"Uh… no sir." Puzzled. "We've been here all this while since you left for the meeting, sir."

Jack sidled over to the desk, and put the case back exactly where it had been on the papers, with a mischievous smirk.

"Hm." Norrington closed the door again, and made as though to walk to his desk – and inhaled sharply with a start at the sight of everything back exactly as he had left it before Jack had happened along. The man glanced out suspiciously at the balcony again, then, to Jack's considerable amusement, looked under the desk. Another little frown, then a muttered, "I've been working too hard."

Jack watched the man start sifting through the dispatches for a moment, and was instantly bored. What in the world was Heaven thinking, making him the guardian angel of Commodore bloody Norrington? The man likely led an incredibly boring life, normally, when not out chasing pirates or pretending to be one. Though his fortunes seemed to have improved from the last time James had seen the thieving Commodore… reinstated and pardoned, eh? Considering he had been the one to indirectly cause Jack's death with the theft of the heart, the pirate didn't particularly feel very charitable towards the man at the moment, let alone any manner of protective.

Perhaps that was the test, though. To see if he could be selfless, to a man who owed him – though Jack conceded Barachiel's point. Norrington's life had indeed taken a turn for the worse ever since they met in Port Royal harbor. To be fair, so had Jack's, but, well, he was fairly winning to cede the issue in face of the matter of his afterlife. To a point. After he'd had a bit of fun.

He waited, wings furling, until Norrington absently moved the quill up to the inkbottle to dip it in, and then flicked it over. Black ink spilled instantly over all the paperwork, and Norrington cursed a foul string of oaths that would have done a denizen of Tortuga proud, as he yanked the papers away and attempted to undo the incipient damage to his desk and the dispatches.

Jack laughed so hard that he had to sit down. Perhaps guardianship of a Commodore wasn't so bad after all.


	2. Of Mice and Sparrows

Author's Note: Just as I decided to be nice to James and write something fluffy and not dark in the least… Tt; It was all the plotbunny's fault. And possibly remnants of influences from the Falconry series. No, I'm not sure if the Caribbean does have sparrows. A quick check through wiki showed that there are actually 'American Sparrows'. Oo; But no location.

Chapter 2

Of Mice and Sparrows

Invisibility, Jack decided, was the best thing to have happened to him since his _Pearl_.

Not that he objected to all the attention he accrued when he had still been alive, but sometimes people tended to get a little… clingy. Especially the Royal Navy, what with their predilections towards brigs, chains and jail cells (right perverse, it could be). And hanging, of course. It wouldn't do to forget the hanging. That and if he had still been alive (and hence visible) he wouldn't be able to do _this_ – 'this' being sauntering into the sea-view mansion that was now the Port Royal branch of the East India Company.

"Very fancy," he murmured, stopping just outside and teetering back on his feet dangerously, looking at the immense clock affixed over the doorway. It was the afternoon, about lunchtime, and Jack had decided to leave his charge to his own devices for the moment, and take a little walk around Port Royal. To do some research, really, nothing to do with pranks and mischief at all. Even the suspiciously squirming sackcloth bag in his hands had absolutely nothing to do with tomfoolery. Serious.

He tipped his hat playfully at the two heavyset guards at the entrance, pulled a face at a passing Lord attended by a train of secretaries and hangers-on holding stacks of paper, and stepped into the busy foyer. People walked around him absently, without noticing that he was there, hurrying on in the machinations of probably the most powerful commercial force in the world.

Terribly English place. The ground was wood-paneled in rich, dark oak. Lots of somber-hued rugs stitched with the three-spoked symbol of the EIC. The furs of a hapless Bengal tiger, its green glass eyes staring sightlessly at the reception against one wall. The reception itself was manned by a monocled, stooped old man who was speaking calmly to a flustered, stout merchant behind an oak counter, trimmed with gold and heavily embossed with the EIC logo. Three sets of comfortable leather armchairs around three round rosewood tables with tastefully decorative glass chess sets. A huge painting of London, between two long glass windows. A painting of the King, whoever he was, (Jack found it a little hard to keep track) above the reception. Several ornate clocks on the last bit of wall, each set in different times, a plaque beneath each of them – Bombay, London, Cathay, New Amsterdam, Manila and Port Royal, amongst others.

Two stairways up to a balcony, and several oak doors marking exits on the ground floor. Jack hefted the struggling bag in his hands, and headed upstairs, folding wings against himself absently to avoid the paper-laden traffic of clerks.

He tapped his lip as he looked to either side of him for a moment, then randomly chose one of the carpeted corridors, sashaying down it and tipping his hat occasionally at random people – a maid, a merchant prince, a tabby cat, plump and well-fed, with a leather collar. This last looked up at him piercingly as he walked past, and hissed. Jack grinned at its retreating back as it fled. Cats, he had found, could see him perfectly – dogs could sense him.

Several wrong turns and occasionally very amusing scenes later (an elderly Lord kissing up with a maid, how fun – Jack left the door open), he found a man whose face was all stern, cold lines, holding a tray of tea and biscuits and moving purposefully, his stride too noiseless and measured to be a true member of the butler fraternity. An air of lethality that other clerks and merchants sensed – they scurried out of his path, sheep before a wolf.

Interesting. Jack fell into pace behind the man, peering at his clothes. The coat had a slight ridge in the side that suggested concealed weaponry. An assassin? Employed by the EIC? Jack vaguely remembered Elizabeth mentioning something along the lines of Beckett having employed something of the sort. Which meant that he had just found his guide.

The man turned down another corridor and knocked on a door with a silver-etched crest of a wyvern curled around a spear.

"Come in."

"Tea, sir." The man opened the door and stepped in, Jack wandering in beside him, whistling as he checked out the large room. Sea view again, different angles. Large map on one wall of the world, East India Company territories marked out by crested tacks. And the man he'd been looking for – the vertically challenged Lord Cutler Beckett, EIC, seated at the desk and going through reports with a frown of concentration.

For reassurance, Jack's fingers stole to his compass at his hip, patting it as he held the bag with his other hand. He was unable to fight down an evil grin as he contemplated Part One of his recently formulated strategy of revenge.

Unfortunately, for his purposes, he had to wait and watch for an opportune moment. Beckett gestured to the assassin-secretary-butler to put the tray down on the only clear space on his desk, and immediately started sipping his tea, without bothering with sugar or milk, eyes fixed on the paper. "Thank you, Mercer." A page was turned. "How's the terrier?"

"Busy, sir. Seems there's been lots of poorly handled work since his resignation." Jack blinked at this. Work? Resignation? Small furry dog? Didn't seem very related. "He hasn't considered your suggestions."

"Hn." Beckett took another sip. "Perhaps it's about time we pulled in his leash a little. Invite him to dinner, will you?"

"Yes sir." Mercer bowed, and left the room.

Jack tilted his head, then shrugged, incurious, keeping a firmer grip on the mouth of the bag. Probably some poor sod out there that Beckett had caught in his web. Absently, he traced the 'P' scar on his wrist, and shivered, offering a silent muttered prayer for said poor sod's mental health once Beckett was done with him. He figured that since he was now technically an angel, it should count for something.

Beckett sat annoyingly at his desk and continued writing. Jack waited for a little, shifting from foot to foot, stared at the map, wandered out into the balcony, and then muttered darkly to himself. And remembered something that Alisa had told him.

Perhaps this was a perfect opportunity to test 'suggestion'.

He swaggered up to Beckett's side, and waved a hand slowly in front of the man's nose. "Ye really, really need a breath of fresh air, mate."

Beckett frowned slightly, his writing faltering, and he glanced out at the balcony, but looked back to his work with a snort.

Jack rolled his eyes, then tried again. "Ye really want t'go out t'the balcony, 'cos o' th'fresh air, an' ye feel a pressin' urge to check out one o' th'ships in th'harbor. From the balcony. Looks like another East India Company ship, mebbe one o' yer rivals from London."

This time, the man shot the balcony a more thoughtful glance, and (finally!) got to his feet, walking to the rail and looking over it. Jack let out a whoop of triumph, and moved to the desk, pulling out a drawer randomly and dumping the bag into it, then pushing it shut quickly. Beckett muttered something inaudible from the balcony, and walked back to his desk, sitting down.

And began to write again. Jack watched him, pouting, for a long moment, then leaned in again. "Ye really want t'open th'lowest drawer t'get somethin'."

Beckett paused, put down his quill, and reached down. And started to his feet with a sharp hiss of shock as carefully gathered and handpicked mice poured out of the drawer in a squeaking, panicked furry mass. "_What the devil_…?"

Jack stumbled back and leaned against the wall, unheeding of the uncomfortable press against his wings, laughing uncontrollably, as Lord Beckett backed away from his desk. The squeaking mice milled in the room, scurrying under rugs and onto cabinets.

"Sir?" A concerned passing guard opened the door, then yelped out a string of oaths as mice poured gratefully out, leaping over booted feet. The man literally staggered back and fell onto his rump, batting at little balls of fur as they attempted to climb up his sleeves.

There was a feline snarl from the corridor as the tabby cat found itself in a heaven of mice. More shouts and crashes as the creatures, further panicked by a bloodthirsty cat, wreaked havoc on clerks holding large stacks of paper and unsuspecting merchants and Lords. Feminine shrieks of dismay from maids and visiting ladies, high pitched over the yells.

He was laughing so hard that he was beginning to tear up. Jack took a few gasping breaths (habit, habit) as he tried to calm down, and burst into another round of chuckles as, from the direction of the reception, he heard a very loud, very English voice bellow, "What in blazes is going on? Good _Lord_, are those _mice_?"

Random mayhem in the EIC offices accomplished, Jack clambered out of the window and managed to glide haphazardly to the street, not exactly feeling very comfortable with flying as yet. He put a spring in his step as he passed the docks, watching a very distinguished-looking elderly Lady talking to a group of marines about the best methods to charter a jaunt to Kingston.

Waited until a very dour-looking merchant prince walked by, then leaned over and pinched the matronly bottom. Watched the chaos that ensued for a moment, smirked, then continued sauntering towards the fort. He supposed that he really should get around doing some actual… guardianship, but this was far, far too entertaining.

--

Norrington had managed to clean up the damage that ink had done to his desk – there were a lot of scrunched up papers soaked in ink in the wastebasket, as well as a few rags. Aristocratic fingers were liberally stained with black. There was a new inkbottle, and it looked as though Norrington was laboriously redrafting some of the reports. Jack felt a little guilty, watching the man slave on to repair the mess he had caused – an absolutely unnecessary extra workload, and Norrington already obviously so stressed. Not to mention this bit of relatively harmless fun likely wasn't earning him any 'Good' points Higher Up.

He waved his fingers in front of Norrington's nose. "Yer feelin' very sleepy. An' yer goin' t'take a nap right now, on yer desk."

Norrington yawned, but only rubbed his eyes, his head drooping a little. Jack pouted. Were suggestions resistible by people with strong will? Or was it merely suggestions that went against the grain of what the person wanted to do at the moment? Beckett, for example, had only been movable when Jack had mentioned something dear to his heart – a challenge to his personal power. And as to the drawer, he likely took stuff out of it all the time. In that case, asking the workaholic Commodore to sleep in the middle of a workday was probably pretty difficult.

Okay. He could improvise.

"Yer feelin' damned sleepy, so ye've decided t'go t'wherever th'johns is, an' wash yer face, mebbe get some coffee."

That worked – Norrington rubbed his eyes again, got a little unsteadily to his feet, and left the room, picking up his hat along the way. Jack let out a breath, then fished some of the scrunched up reports from the wastebasket, comparing it to the newly written script. Looked like the man was going about it in order. He put the papers back, and picked up the stack of stained dispatches.

If water to wine was possible, this was probably pretty bloody easy. Jack imagined a perfect copy of the dispatches written on the new papers, sans ink stains, and snapped his fingers for dramatic effect.

Words appeared with a faint shimmer over the papers. Jack put the papers back down, and flipped through the pristine copy in satisfaction, then placed it back on the desk and went to perch on the balcony to wait, feeling very pleased with himself. Easy peasy. Miracles didn't require any real stretch of the imagination after all. The sea breeze pulled at his feathers – Jack glanced back at the long feathers for a moment. Was it just him, or did the wings suddenly feel oddly more… real? Heavier? Was that because he had just…

He was interrupted in his musings when the door opened, and Norrington entered, holding a cup of coffee, taking a deep swallow of the bitter liquid before placing it down on the table. And frowned again, hastily picking up the dispatches in disbelief, rifling through it. Looked sharply around again, then compared the writing with the ink-destroyed papers. "What in the _world_…?"

"Sir?" a worried question from the door. "Is something wrong?"

"Did… anybody enter my office when I was out?"

"Uh… no sir."

Norrington pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I must be going mad." He stared at the dispatches for a long moment more, then shook his head, scrunching up the ink-stained versions and dumping them into the waste. Another gulp of coffee, and he settled back at his desk to go through the new dispatches.

Jack rolled his eyes. Was this how Norrington spent his life normally? Surely being able to chase pirates and such all over the Caribbean was far better. He pursed his lips, unable to understand why Heaven thought everything was his fault. Besides, the man had what he wanted back, didn't he? He was now a Commodore again. Nothing much Jack could do about that to make it any better, could he? What was he supposed to do, make the wig shinier? More brocade on the uniform?

Cheeping on the rail beside him made him look down – and grin. A pair of sparrows – the American versions, anyway, also white, brown and fluffy, like their English counterparts – had alighted beside him. Evidently, birds couldn't see him, or weren't disturbed by him – they hopped on the plain wooden rail, cocking their heads at the interior, scanning the place for crumbs with beady black eyes.

Entranced with the adorable creatures, Jack didn't realize Norrington had also noticed them until the other man spoke, wryly, softly. "Late today, aren't you?"

Frowning, Jack looked up. Norrington had leaned his cheek on one hand, a half-smile on his face as he watched the birds. Jack blinked. When the man smiled, he was drop-dead _gorgeous_, silly poncy wig and all.

He shook himself quickly, even to the tips of his wings. Irrelevant thought. Guardianship. Right.

Norrington was reaching into one of his drawers, where he picked up a crust of bread, probably leftovers from breakfast, and tossed it into the balcony. The sparrows set on it in earnest, cheeping at each other, obviously regulars. Jack pulled his feet up into a cross-legged position, torn between watching the two balls of fluff go about tearing at a piece of bread larger than any one of them, and the bemused expression of indulgence on a suddenly very pretty Commodore.

Okay, so the man had a softer side. He couldn't wear that thunderous expression all the time, after all, not without it sticking. That didn't exactly help Jack's little dilemma, though. Unless the man liked birds? However, Jack wasn't sure he could go around catching the little creatures and dumping them in the office. Birds didn't tend to cooperate very well, even if they were prone to suggestion. Besides, he wasn't sure Norrington would appreciate flocks of miscellaneous panicky birds flying all about his office, any more than Beckett had appreciated the mice.

He leaned back against the rail, trying to think. If only there was rum…

--

When the sky began to darken, Norrington glanced at the clock, then got up to put on his coat and hat. Jack blinked, startled out of his moody silence, and followed him out of the office and through the fort, watching as the Navy wound down for the night, soldiers either returning to the barracks or to their homes in Port Royal.

The Commodore seemed remarkably tense for somebody returning home after a long day. Surely he wasn't _that_ much of a workaholic. Jack eyed the rigid, broad shoulders suspiciously, and the occasionally clenching fist, as they descended a flight of stairs, marines saluting as they passed. A carriage was already waiting outside – Jack frowned, seeing the logo of the EIC on its side.

Curious.

He clambered up onto the roof, spreading his wings for balance, peering over the side as Norrington got in.

Why the EIC?

Then again, Jack supposed that Norrington had likely stolen the heart to exchange it with Beckett, in return for reinstatement. That much seemed obvious, since Beckett evidently wanted the damned thing for whatever nefarious purpose. So, were they good mates now?

A niggling thought struck him, a reminder of an overheard conversation in the afternoon, about terriers and resignations. Funny thing, that, Norrington had also resigned from being a Commodore, hadn't he? Before he'd been picked up in Tortuga… resignations…

Good Lord.

Jack held on to his hat absently as the carriage rattled on towards the EIC mansion, his eyes wide. Norrington was the… 'terrier'? The 'poor sod' Jack had previously sympathized with?

Good _Lord_.

Trying to sort out this mess was going to be a _huge_ undertaking. Jack scowled. That explained the tension, at least – it'd be like eating dinner with a sadistic snake, it would, supping with Lord Beckett. And, well, the feeling of not-really-happiness that he'd gotten from Norrington so far (though he'd put that down to work stress and the ink prank). Norrington didn't look like the sort who'd enjoy being under another man's thumb, Navy or not. And Jack knew as clearly as any other how Beckett could and would abuse any position of superiority with malicious, cold cruelty.

The 'P' brand on his arm itched. Jack rubbed at it out of habit, nibbling at his lower lip. Well. Whatever Norrington had gotten himself into, he'd started it, what with stealing the heart, didn't he? Of course, causally speaking, it all started with that little chase his _Dauntless_ had danced with Jack's _Pearl_. But that wasn't exactly Jack's fault, either.

A closer consideration of this thought made Jack aware that it was fairly beside the point. Fault or not, getting accepted into Heaven depended on, apparently, proper guardianship, i.e. Norrington becoming somehow happy. For a decent amount of time, anyway. Whatever satisfied the Higher Ups.

Jack groaned. From what he knew of the Commodore, he knew the other man was going to be bloody _difficult_ to please, let alone extricate from whatever tangle he'd gotten himself into now.

--

He tagged along behind Norrington when they reached the EIC mansion, noting that the Commodore needed no directions – up the stairs, around the corner, to the room with the Beckett crest, knocking on the door.

"Come in."

Jack slipped in after him, peering around curiously. Two sets of cutlery and plates on the desk, and another chair added. Norrington put coat and hat on the rack, and sat down in silence, jaw working, not looking up at Beckett.

All evidence of the mice fiasco hours ago had been cleared up efficiently – Jack hadn't even noticed any hint of the past chaos on the way up here. He leaned against the wall, watching as Mercer served the first course – some sort of clear soup.

"Busy at the fort?" Beckett was asking, in between mouthfuls.

Norrington shrugged. "It seems no one really bothered to handle the paperwork in my absence."

"Ah," Beckett arched an eyebrow. "You can't avoid our terms forever, Commodore."

"I said I'd look into it after I've sorted out the administrative disaster in the fort," Norrington replied evenly.

"Delegate. Train some men," Beckett said dismissively, "You should know how. I doubt all of your paperwork requires your personal perusal and signature, does it?"

Silence. Obviously, lying didn't come naturally to Norrington. Jack shook his head slightly. Finally, dryly, "I don't see why I have to captain the _Flying Dutchman_."

"Reassurance, of course. And, of course, the ships under East India Company protection are unlikely to turn tail and panic if the captain appears to be the famed Pirate Hunter. You can also solve the problem of any Navy ships that might feel like hunting supernatural prey."

"Why don't you do it?" Norrington said irritably. "If you think I have so much time to sit on a magical pirate ship and run around the Caribbean doing your bidding. Isn't it more efficient for you to command the damned ship?"

"Two reasons, Commodore. Firstly, you're expendable. Secondly, I'm also… busy," Beckett finished his soup, nodding to Mercer, who went out for the second course.

"Expendable," Norrington repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"Precisely. On the other hand, I am sure that if I were to go aboard the ship by myself, no doubt sometime a regrettably fatal accident would befall me."

Norrington snorted. "Why did you bother to go to all the trouble to get me reinstated, then? No doubt you had to call in a fair number of favors."

"Because ships are less likely to fire on a Commodore than an ex-Commodore," Beckett said with exaggerated patience. "Understand?"

Green eyes flashed fire for a moment at the jibe, and then Norrington bowed his head, controlling himself. "I can't condone firing on merchant traders simply because they are East India Company rivals. It's… it's _piracy_."

"No, it's _business_," Beckett corrected smoothly, as the next course arrived – salad, with slivers of grilled fish.

"And of course, if there are any survivors…"

"You will take the fall," Beckett smirked. "Even if you were to tell the truth, no one would believe you."

"As far fetched as it is already that I'd be captaining a submersible ship crewed by monsters?"

Beckett shrugged. "Even so, it'd be your word against mine. And I need not remind you in detail that as easily as I reconstructed your position, I can also ruin you. Irreparably."

Jack looked worriedly at tensed shoulders, and then at Beckett, then turned his eyes heavenward, muttering, "Oh bugger."

Of all the trouble that Norrington had to be in… well. At least it very likely couldn't get any worse than this, could it?

The rest of dinner was conducted in cold silence. After coffee, Norrington rose to go, but Beckett spoke up, his voice still carefully bland. "Commodore."

"What?"

"I feel you need another… reminder." A smirk. "Besides, I've had an extremely trying day."

A deep, shuddering breath. Lips parted and pressed shut, and a fist clenched.

Jack leaned forward in curiosity. Beckett had moved his chair, angling to face the balcony. Norrington stalked around the desk, and knelt down before him, Jack admiring the fluid grace so much that he took a moment to register exactly what the gesture meant. His eyes widened as Norrington began to undo the other man's breeches.

"Bloody _hell_." He definitely, _definitely_ didn't want to see this. Quickly, he stepped into the balcony, spreading his wings.

His natural curiosity, however, made him take a backward glance over his shoulder just as he climbed up onto the rail. One image froze into his mind – Beckett rolling back Norrington's right sleeve. Norrington's fingers, white-knuckled on the armrest. On the arm, just below the elbow joint, was a brand in a pattern that matched a ring that currently adorned Beckett's middle finger – his family crest.

A wyvern, curled around a spear.

--

Jack followed Norrington back afterwards. The Commodore had gone straight to the bathroom in his villa, and Jack could hear the sounds of scrubbing, coughing, and, finally, choked sobs. He closed his eyes, sitting down on the ground outside the door, playing with a beaded length of hair, wings haphazardly arranged on the tiled floor.

He wished that there could be an easy way to resolve this particular dilemma. Control – it was a demonstration of control in the worst sort of way. Even when Beckett had branded Jack, he hadn't taken any liberties with the pirate's person. Perhaps he only took some sort of sadistic pleasure in doing… things… to very handsome and uptight Commodores. Hmm. Possible.

That didn't help Jack either, though – in fact, it only brought very bad mental images before his eyes.

_Besides, I've had an extremely trying day…_

Oh, _bugger_. Jack thumped his head once against the wall, remembering the prank about the mice. Again another problem in the life of the Commodore that had Jack as an indirect cause. Of course, seeing how there had been no protest or question at all from the Commodore, it didn't seem like that had been the first time Norrington had performed that… service… but it didn't make Jack feel any better.

Go back to Beckett and try 'suggesting' something along the lines of "Ye really don't want t'do that t'the Commodore anymore, mate, in fact, ye want t'be real nice t'him now"? Possible, but unlikely, given the nature of 'suggesting' that Jack had found so far. Besides, he was fairly sure that Heaven didn't intend to make it easy for him to get into their good books.

He needed rum.

Norrington probably had rum, didn't he? Jack pulled himself to his feet, and wandered off down the corridor, peeking into rooms as quietly as he could. Drawing room, study, down the stairs, foyer, parlor… parlor? Jack sidled in, and brightened as he saw a drinks cabinet.

He muttered as he tried opening it. Locked. Focusing all the concentration he could on the immediate problem, he sat down cross-legged, and poked at the lock. Okay. He could probably go about performing another miracle, since it didn't look like he had any quota. Besides, this one would help him think – perfectly legitimate, committing larceny irrelevant. Definitely. All for the greater good, right?

A bit of fiddling and experimentation afterwards, the lock clicked open with a muttered, self-conscious command, and he began rummaging through the bottles, placing the discarded ones on the ground beside him. Finally, just as he was beginning to despair of the Commodore's taste in liquor, he found a relatively unused-looking bottle behind the cognac and gin that looked promising.

"Hah!" He got a little unsteadily to his feet, hands flailing for balance, squinting at the cork, tightly jammed in place. Now to do something about _that_…

And he froze, as a warm hand clapped firmly on his shoulder.


	3. Half Remembered Lullaby

Author's note: Sorry for reusing plot devices. Drunken Commodores are too cute.

Chapter 3

Half-remembered lullaby

Oh, _bugger_.

Jack had the presence of mind not to drop the rum, as he slowly looked over his shoulder.

A very shocked looking James Norrington, dressed in nightshirt and breeches, obviously on his way to bed. Wet hair framed handsome features that looked oddly vulnerable, without the wig, loose and curling at the edges. Expressive green eyes, that one could so very easily drown in.

No. Irrelevant. Guardianship. Jack tried his best smile, spreading his hands wide. "Commodore! I was in th'area, so I thought I'd just drop in fer a visit! An', y'see, these wings, they're just part o' a fancy dress costume that I was headed up to, after Port Royal, savvy?"

"Sparrow." James shook his head slowly, in disbelief, then rubbed his eyes as if to confirm he wasn't hallucinating. "You're babbling." His brow furrowed. "What wings?"

Jack looked down at his shoulders. Flapped one wing a little. Convenient. Invisible by default, it seemed, unlike the rest of him. He cursed himself quietly for assuming that Norrington had retired for the night, and doubly so for losing his concentration in the name of finding rum. "Uh. Nothin'."

Norrington opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head again, wryly, and reached down for cognac and a glass, heading over to one of the armchairs in the parlor and sprawling into it, pouring himself some brandy. Caught between putting the rum back, or having some anyway, Jack hesitated, rocking on his heels.

The Commodore smiled wryly as he noticed the pirate's indecision. "Just have some." A deep sigh, as he rubbed at his temple. "What a day. First something peculiar happens at the fort, then I have to face Beckett, and I come home to find _you_, of all people, stealing my alcohol."

"Borrowin', Commodore. _Borrowin_'." Jack found the corkscrew, and relieved the rum of said stopper, taking a deep swallow. Ah. Being dead definitely didn't seem to rob him of the pleasure of rum, at least. He sauntered over and sat in one of the chairs, folding his wings to either side. "Pleased t'see ye too. Thanks fer th'rum."

"How'd you escape? The Kraken, that is." Norrington asked curiously, taking another sip. "I was so sure that you'd… well."

Jack considered, for a brief moment, telling Norrington something along the lines of 'Actually, ye did kill me, mate, an' I got sent t'heaven, an' now I'm goin' t'be yer guardian angel, savvy?' but decided it wouldn't go down too well. He smirked, showing golden teeth. "See, there were these sea-turtles, an'…"

Norrington snorted. "Oh _please_. You can't think that I'm as gullible as Mister Turner."

The pirate studied the other man for a moment. The only evidence of the toll that the past few hours had taken on Norrington was the sharp, jerky way he downed gulps of his cognac and the lingering redness in his eyes. Otherwise, the voice was the same bored drawl Jack remembered that always surfaced whenever the pirate was trying to pull a fast one. "Ye really want t'know?"

The Commodore peered at him over the rim of his glass, then closed his eyes. "No. I suppose not." Another gulp. "I'm sorry. For what happened. It didn't really occur to me that Davy Jones would… sink your ship if he found the heart missing. I rather thought he'd start chasing me." A hollow laugh. "Wasn't thinking properly, was I? I've been sorry, though. This past month especially…" The man pulled himself up short, realizing that he himself was beginning to blather, and smiled thinly. "Well. What brings you to Port Royal, Sparrow? Mischief?"

Jack thought fast. "Well, y'see, I was going t'check on me friends th'Turners, an' seein' as they aren't even here at th'moment, I decided t'get a drink somewhere else, quiet-like."

"Ah." Norrington blinked. "I see." Dryly. "I suppose that explains why you're actually… clean. Yes, the Turners haven't been around. Missing for two months. If Governor Swann knows where they are, he hasn't been sharing."

"Two months?" Jack let the 'clean' comment pass, and vaguely realized Norrington had mentioned something about that just a short moment ago. "It's been two months?"

"Feels longer," Norrington murmured bitterly, then seemed to shake himself out of his melancholy. "Since the island. Where have you been?"

"Here an' there," Jack said absently. It hadn't felt that long Up There at all – probably only a few hours at most. Stunned, he swallowed as much rum as he could hold down in one gulp. They lapsed into silence, each man to his own thoughts. Jack realized, with a guilty start, that he had just about broken one of the cardinal rules of guardian angel-ship. _Never show yourself to your charge_…

Whoops.

However, since he still had the wings, and he hadn't as yet been struck by lightning or whatever they did to transgressing angels, Jack cautiously wondered if he was in as much trouble as he thought he was. Though he'd been slacking off as well – there had been no constructive effort towards Norrington's happiness as yet. Quite the opposite, probably.

He considered, briefly, the option of simply turning tail and running away to the garden, then thinking really, really hard about the word 'invisible'. Something, however, about the air of forlorn misery about Norrington pulled him up short. He couldn't just leave, like that. Jack slumped back into the comfortable chair, and took another gulp of rum.

"So where are you going to stay? Or are you leaving already?" Norrington asked, startling Jack out of his preoccupation with the state of his immortal soul.

"Wouldn't be tellin' ye now, would I?" Playfully. He didn't actually need… accommodation, of course.

"You just drank most of my rum."

"An' very good rum it was too," Jack toasted Norrington with a tilt of the bottle.

The Commodore arched an eyebrow. "You do realize you're still a wanted criminal?"

"Just th'same way I know yer probably s'posed t'be arrestin' me 'bout now," Jack said cheerfully, taking another swallow. He wondered how that would work out. Could he be hung if he were already dead? Or would he just be doing the hemp tango until someone stopped being horrified and cut him down? Morbid. Bad thoughts.

Norrington sighed. "I… I suppose I owe you. For what I did. So I'd let it pass. Just leave Port Royal, before you're caught."

"Thanks, but all th'same, I'd be stayin' 'round 'till th'whelps come back," Jack said quickly, then kicked himself. It would have been a lot easier to agree to leave, and just make sure he was 'invisible' again. Sometimes his mouth moved without signals from his brain.

"You can't. Beckett is here. In Port Royal." Jack watched him closely, but Norrington betrayed nothing in his voice or face. "If he catches you again…"

"Then I'd just 'ave t'make sure 'e doesn't, eh?" Jack said pleasantly. "Cheers." He drained the rum, dumped the bottle on the table, then wandered a little unsteadily back to the cabinet, rooting through it.

"I don't have any more rum," Norrington remarked, with just the faintest edge of irritation. "Be serious, Sparrow."

"I am bein' serious. An' I'm bein' serious 'bout ye not 'avin' t'worry 'bout me not bein' serious, seein' as I'm bloody serious 'bout not bein' caught by th'very short Lord Beckett ever again', since there be somethin' bout 'is height, or lack of, that makes him serious 'bout hurtin' pirates, see?" A gold-toothed grin.

Norrington sighed, struggling to follow the convoluted sentences when under the influence of cognac. "Sparrow." A pause. "Put that back, it cost me far more than it really should."

Jack put the claret back into the cupboard with a pout. "M'serious. Besides, what ye be worryin' 'bout an old pirate fer? One less pirate in th'world, innit?"

A growl, the controlled voice becoming a little slurred as Norrington poured himself yet another glass of cognac. "Because there are some things that one man should never do to another, that's why."

"Bit late, innit? Ye saw th'evidence o'th'run in I 'ad wi' th'Company, th'first day we met," Jack sniffed at a wine bottle, then looked at the label. "What makes ye think 'e hadn't done any' o' said things 'e shouldn'a do t'another man t'old Jack already, eh?"

Norrington was rubbing absently at the brand, under his nightshirt. He froze when he realized Jack was studying him silently, with expressionless, kohl-rimmed eyes, and jerked the hand away, taking another gulp of the cognac, draining the glass. Long fingers reached a little unsteadily for the bottle. Jack grimaced. "Right, I think that's just 'bout enough o' brandy fer ye."

The Commodore's eyes were a little unfocused under the long, drying hair, but he smiled – that exact lopsided, indulgent smile that the man had directed at the sparrows. Jack wondered if it was still possible for his heart to skip a beat.

"Make me," Norrington purred.

Jack closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, counted to three, and sank the fingers of his free hand into a wing to remind himself exactly what he was here for. Besides, he was fairly sure 'sleeping with your charge when he's drunk' would probably break a far more fundamental rule than 'be invisible' and 'don't do things that accidentally cause your charge to be violated by another man'.

That thought brought him up short, more quickly than the others. It would be… inhuman, right now, to take advantage of Norrington when he was this vulnerable. As odd as it seemed, that the Pirate Hunter could be in need of protection – but Jack decided, at this moment, that he was going to be serious, after all. In guardianship. No man or woman deserved to live tangled in these webs of control. Jack had a battered sense of justice, but every strand of it within him reacted to this situation with indignation.

He got to his feet, and tugged the glass free from unresisting fingers and dumped it next to the bottle of cognac. "Yer goin' t'sleep now," Jack informed the other man, tugging at his arm. Norrington laughed at his efforts – an angel or not, Jack still didn't have enough strength, apparently, to pull a heavier and larger man to his feet, but he eventually got to his feet, stumbling, placing a warm arm around slighter shoulders after some encouragement.

A nose buried itself into Jack's hair, as the pirate pulled him up the stairs. "You know… you actually smell good. When not… when you've just cleaned up, that is."

Jack wasn't sure that angels could actually smell bad, but he shrugged, ignoring the hot breath above his scalp. The white scar of a healing brand. A wyvern, and a spear. "Which room's yers?"

After some mumbled direction, Jack managed to maneuver Norrington into a room that, although fairly airy, was terribly… bare. Outside of a four-poster, a desk, a dresser, a wardrobe and a large mirror, the only decoration was a mounted sword on an oak plaque, next to the balcony – its plainness suggesting that it was the sword Norrington had used before he had taken up the Turner version, which currently lay on his desk, an ornate paperweight.

"G'nights," Jack offered, watching the other man crawl into bed.

"Where're you going?" Norrington had curled up under the sheets, his voice slightly muffled.

Jack shrugged, then by habit, looked at himself in the mirror. No reflection. Ringed fingers poked at the glass experimentally, but all he could see from the framed glass was the nightscape beyond the balcony. Curious. And a little unnerving. Not to mention his finger didn't leave any little smudges of prints, at all. He looked down. Candles on the dresser and table provided a dim glow for the bedroom, but he didn't cast any sort of shadow.

_Very_ unnerving.

The sounds of sheets moving made him sidle hastily away from the reflected space, and into the shadow of the wardrobe, leaning against the wall next to the mirror. Norrington was peering at him. Jack smiled, to cover up the mild shock to his senses from the last couple of minutes' worth of revelations. "Fer me t'know, an' ye t'find out, some other day, savvy?"

"I have a guest room somewhere. Down the corridor to the left. You can use that," Norrington offered, a little hesitantly. Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice any irregularity about shadows, or the lack of.

Jack fluttered his fingers, and grinned playfully. "Why, Commodore! Ye be right generous t'day. Rum, an' lodgin'?"

Norrington looked away, down at the sheets, and one hand snaked under the covers – rubbing the brand mark absently, it seemed. The silence stretched – outside, Jack could hear the faint, querying cries of the few animals that made the night their domain. He half-turned, as if to leave.

"Don't go," Norrington said, so quietly that Jack almost didn't catch it. An unvoiced, irrational plea, framed in bitter regret and unbearable loneliness.

The impish smile faded from his face, as the pirate studied his nails (clean, and even trimmed, bloody hell). A long pause, then he softly agreed. "Awlright."

"You will, won't you?" Norrington closed his eyes. "End up leaving, that is. Maybe I really am losing my mind. Imagining things. You can't really be here. No more than dispatches can miraculously copy themselves onto blank paper."

"M'still here, mate." Jack sighed. Guilt warred with pragmatism. "_Awlright_. Just this once. An' ye won't be rememberin' any o' this in th'morning, savvy?"

"Remembering what?" Norrington asked, looking over to Jack, then frowned and sat up when the pirate walked over to sit on the bed, one leg folded beneath him, the other hanging off the blankets. He did, however, allow himself to be guided to half-lie in Jack's lap, head resting against a thigh. Arms stilled, then one curled around the small of the pirate's back. Jack began patting an arm, racking his brains for a song that wasn't bawdry in any way. Something that Elizabeth had taught him, perhaps.

Norrington slept, snatched away by the strains of a half-remembered lullaby, blanketed by the wings of an angel.

--

Jack was careful to pry himself loose when it seemed as though morning was about to break out over the Caribbean, gently shifting Norrington's head onto a pillow. The man murmured, stirred a little, and then rolled over, mumbling in his sleep. Jack let out a soft sound of relief, and tiptoed with exaggerated caution over to the balcony. He looked out to the line of blue that could be seen in the distance, behind the tiny masts of ships in the harbor, and realized with a guilty start that he hadn't thought of his _Pearl_ very much at all, not since Heaven.

Still, he also knew there wasn't very much he could do about that now, other than pray that her next captain, whoever he was, would treat her well. He missed her, and missed the freedom of the sea, and rather hoped that if Heaven was into creating private… er… Heavens, as rewards, that the sea, and a fine ship (if not the _Pearl_), would be incorporated into his. Or he would complain. Definitely.

Jack perched on the rail, thought 'invisible' very firmly, and tugged at his beaded beard. Thinking of rewards before he had accomplished what he had been set out to do? Terribly reprehensible. He just had to think of the problems as a big picture first, before applying a solution.

Firstly, Norrington had effectively made a deal with the devil – his place as a Commodore, in return for captaining the _Flying Dutchman _for nefarious East India Company purposes. Secondly, the man was damned lonely – enough to seek company in a pirate. Thirdly, Beckett was making him do… unmentionable things. Right. All of the above really centered on Beckett.

Jack wasn't sure if he was allowed to kill a man, as much as he'd like to, when he was an angel. Wasn't that one of the more important bits of the Ten Commandments? Not kill him, then, but somehow run him out of Port Royal? But then the man might just insist that Norrington follow him. So Norrington would need something else, more tangible, that would ground his priorities and put some iron back into that previously proud spine.

His eyes wandered down towards the slowly awakening port, visible from this house up on a hill, and grinned when he picked out the blacksmith. He rather missed the whelps now, with their irrepressible, innocent energy. What was it he had just said, some time ago, when he first met Will?

_Ye need a girl, mate._

That was it! Jack would have crowed in triumph if he weren't worried that there was a small chance he would wake Norrington up. A girl. Who was not Elizabeth. After all, if Norrington had been willing to risk career and sanity running around the Caribbean looking for a haunted island and a ghost ship on the say-so of a pirate and a woman, he definitely would be able to resist one mundane (okay, not mundane) short English Lord, wouldn't he? For the sake of wife and home and maybe little tykes?

Not to mention this really shouldn't be too difficult. Technically. After all, Norrington was single, liked women, striking good looks, personality, social status and what seemed to be a decent paying job, since this house was pretty big. Even had servants – there were, from up here, perceptible sounds of people walking about on the floor beneath him. Perfect package, issues of sadistic English Lords put aside.

Something about the thought of Norrington getting attached to a typical pretty flower of English womanhood unsettled him, but Jack decided that whatever the underlying reason was, it was likely irrelevant. Despite his currently rum-warmed brain, Jack knew this was definitely the best way to go about solving the… Norrington Problem. Getting back to Heaven. Maybe even check on the Turners on the way, play a few pranks on Davy Jones, call on Tia.

However, he'd probably need help. It seemed unlikely that there would be any other eligible fair flowers of English womanhood around Port Royal, or Norrington would have noticed them sooner or later. Besides, (though it was entirely possible the lad was simply gushing), William had mentioned something about Elizabeth being the beauty of Port Royal. It was believable, even if Jack liked his women with a little more in the way of… frontal assets, Elizabeth had a pretty face. Tempting, as he knew from past experience, despite the frontal assets issue. Wait. Irrelevant thoughts. So. There'd have to be some way of getting in outside competition.

Jack drew a blank as to how to do that, short of somehow going to London or something and 'suggesting' wild fancies to the tender ears of unsuspecting virgins, of cruises and romance in the Caribbean ('Ye will get yer da' t'charter ye a voyage t'the Caribbees, an' ye'd fall in love with a dashin' Commodore, an' want t'do all manner o' scandalous things t'his person' – definite amusing possibilities, but difficult in reality, probably). The female company he knew personally was out of the question – they tended to be 'working women', irate first mates, or voodoo mistresses.

At the same time, he'd also need some sort of plan to run Beckett out of town, maybe even get him killed (though Jack was really, really sure this would land him into Big Trouble).

He decided that he needed an ally, and more information.

--

Jack hoped that the last 'suggestion' he'd made to Norrington about not remembering him had stuck (though it could be a little difficult to explain why the rum had gone, and all. Jack had briefly considered refilling it with water and performing a small miracle, but he didn't want to risk getting into further trouble with Higher Powers). He was also very careful to remember to stay invisible, as he flew over the mansions of the elite of Port Royal, wondering where the hell the man he had in mind was.

Then it occurred to him – said person had to work, didn't he? Jack hovered in the air as he considered the number of coaches beginning to rattle down towards the town proper, and spied a familiar, elaborately wigged head in one.

It stopped at a stately building near the center of Port Royal – the town hall, Jack supposed. Governor Swann stepped out, met at the entrance by clerks gesturing at scrolls of important looking bits of paper. Jack rolled his eyes. Did nobody in Port Royal ever take a break? Or was this how people of a non-piratical nature passed their (sad little) lives? Buried in little bits of paper? Jack landed on the cobblestones and followed the Governor into the town hall, thanking his stars that he'd never thought of becoming an honest man.

The town hall was far less opulent than the EIC mansion, really just an affair of stone and plaster filled with several complaining tradesmen who were being sorted out at a wooden counter manned by harried clerks. Rows of seats before the counter were filled by several more men, looking impatiently at clocks and rummaging through notes. Governor Swann nodded to those who cared to greet him, and went up a narrow flight of stairs, followed by hangers-on and Jack. The building was old, and had probably once been a church, by the design of it, and simply extended later when there was a need for an office for the Governor. Weathered wooden beams buttressed relatively newer looking stone and plaster – rusted ornate metal crosses hung alongside mounted pistols.

The corridor opened up to a view of the market square and the healthy noise of early morning commerce, then joined up to another corridor, and finally to a large room, no balcony. Governor Swann began to talk to one clerk after another. Bored, Jack waited for a while, as the others discussed the conversion of the slums area of Port Royal into something more respectable, and then went over to one of the two windows in the office, looking out onto the street. Boring office. Not a single piece of decoration, just more and more paper. He sidled over to the desk – a small portrait there. A gorgeous woman, a younger Governor Swann, and a lovely little girl wearing one of Elizabeth's rare, sweet smiles.

Jack hoped that, wherever the whelps were, their guardian angels were doing a better job than he was for Norrington. That made him frown a little for a moment. Supposing there were other guardian angels, why didn't he see any about? Or did 'invisible' apply even to other angels? Certainly he could think of all manner of disputes that could occur if the angels could see each other, since each were mostly dedicated to the best interests of their charge, and interests could conflict all too easily.

Or did you only get a guardian angel if you were… somehow in Heaven's good books? He couldn't exactly imagine Beckett or Mercer having one, though he supposed that was entirely possible.

Jack filed that away as 'things to ask others in the future', as Governor Swann finally sat down at his desk with a huff, and began to sort through some heavily sealed envelopes.

"All right mate, just 'cos I don't know how t'read yer mind, yer goin' t'think aloud wi' me on this," Jack said, waving a hand in front of the ageing face, etched so deeply with lines of worry. "Softly like, so nobody in the corridor will think yer goin' bonkers, savvy. What d'ye think o' Norrington?"

Governor Swann paused in the act of opening one of the envelopes, his eyes unfocusing for a moment, as if contemplating some topic that had been bothering him for some time. "Working too hard, that boy." A sigh. "If only that Lord Beckett didn't have a hold on me… I'm sure he's somehow puppeteering James."

Oh, bloody hell. Did Beckett have to be one damned step ahead of him all the way? Jack groaned. Governor Swann's eyes had drifted over to the portrait, and his smile was thin, pained. Didn't take a genius to guess what this 'hold' was, after all. Still. "Right. But although 'e 'as this hold on ye, ye know ye have ways, smart ways, o' getting' yer back on him without him knowin', an' mebbe helpin' th'Commodore in th'process."

"I wonder how I can help," Governor Swann murmured, placing the dispatches down on the desk. "I'd ask James what's wrong, but he's been so evasive of late."

"Beckett be doin' terrible things t'the Commodore, an' yer suspicion o' this is suddenly very strong," Jack waved both hands for better effect. Dramatically, anyway. Governor Swann frowned, his expression darkening.

"It must be something despicable, knowing that man. James has changed so much ever since he returned." A shake of his head. "God. I must have been blind."

"Good, good. Now yer nearly there. Right. Ye've seen how Norrington was when 'e was 'round yer pretty little daughter, mate. So yer thinkin' now, won't it be great t'hold a ball, or some sort o' festival, invite a lot o' yer mates from London or wherever, wi' their own lovely daughters, an' hopefully shack him up wi' someone pretty? Mebbe then 'e'd 'ave more incentive t'break free from whatever Beckett be doin' t'him, what wi' concerns o' future family."

"Why. I've just had a splendid idea." Governor Swann rose to his feet.

"Naturally, naturally," Jack said, with a smirk. "However, ye know Beckett might be able t'guess at what ye be doin', so ye need t'distract him, or feint a little."

"Lord Beckett would guess all too easily at my motives," Governor Swann sunk back into his seat, frowning.

"All right, see, m'sure that, bein' th'politician that ye are, ye keep close tabs on th'balances o' power in Jamaica. So ye be knowin', maybe, other East India Company Lords o' sufficient ambition, smarts, power, wealth or whatever close by, an' ye can invite them t'this ball. Mebbe those wi' eligible daughters that can then, as previously said, shack up wi' Norrington, so they 'ave interest in protectin' him. Beckett can then worry his wigged head 'bout them, an' mebbe wi' some anonymous or discreet help ye can establish some o' said Lords here, as well. Then 'e can worry 'bout th'power struggle an' leave ye an' th'Commodore alone, give ye both a breather." Jack held in his breath, wondering how Governor Swann would take in this lengthy suggestion.

He needn't have worried. A slow smile spread over the worn face, its crafty nature looking rather out of place on the florid, kindly features. Too easy.

"An' ye be doin' this very, very stealthily, wi' lots o' care, 'cos Elizabeth has a great da' who loves her, an' when she's comin' back – ye know she'd come back – she'd want t'see her da' in one piece," Jack added, because he knew, through Elizabeth's account, that the Governor was occasionally given to risky impulses when desperate. And although the man was so very prim and proper, and English, and tended to be a little too single-minded in pursuit of his daughter's happiness – Jack had no grudge against him. Wished him well. And definitely, at this moment, needed his help.

"Elizabeth. How I miss you," Governor Swann said softly, and picked up the portrait. Jack took this as his cue to take his leave.

Hopefully, everything would follow the Plan…


	4. Fundamental Regrets

Author's Note: yet another chapter based on an art idea. Also, I just realized: wtf? The chapters didn't even hit NC17 yet?

Chapter 4

Fundamental regrets

Jack yelped when, on his way out of the office, he was poked in the shoulder. He frowned, ('invisibility' was on, wasn't it?) turning to see another angel – a petite Oriental woman with shoulder-length, untied straight black hair and small, slanted eyes, dressed in a white robe, wings flared behind her. "Who are you?" she asked sharply, without preamble.

"M'Captain Jack Sparrow. Temporary guardian angel," Jack doffed his tricorn hat extravagantly. "Who're ye?"

"Miyako. Guardian angel, to Weatherby Swann," Miyako said dryly, folding her arms. Her English was crisp, if exotically accented and too-carefully enunciated, and she spoke at a rapid-fire pace. "Why are you interfering with my charge? Who's yours? Why are your clothes so irregular?"

"All in a good cause, luv," Jack said quickly, flailing his hands as if to stop the tide of queries. "An' I be temporarily guardin' one Commodore James Norrington."

"Oh. Him." Miyako pursed perfect tiny red lips. Her eyes narrowed. "So what are you doing? I went down to the kitchen to check on the hall's cat and her new kittens, and when I come back I see you abusing the ability to 'suggest' on Weatherby." A derisive sniff. "And who trained you? You're fading in and out of my sight. Didn't learn how to concentrate? What do you mean by temporary?"

Clerks walked around them as Jack attempted to field the barrage of scathing questions, swaying a little, then waggled a forefinger, starting with the most important one. "M'visible?"

"To humans, I doubt it, unless your concentration can lapse any worse than it already is. To angels… very much so."

"Oh." Jack settled for giving her a short outline of how he had come to be a guardian angel, managing to leave out embellishments, save for a little swashbuckling action that hadn't happened, aboard his _Pearl_. Miyako arched an eyebrow in disbelief, though she relaxed a little, her wings fluffing behind her.

"Very irregular. But come to think of it, I've seen you before. You're the pirate who fell off the fort wall." Miyako grinned.

"Glad t'amuse," Jack said dryly. His guardian angel, whoever he or she was, hadn't exactly been very attentive on the issue of hungry giant sea monsters.

"That explains your remarkable lack in any sort of formal training," Miyako played with a strand of black hair, as her eyes flickered down absently to look at the scuffed carpet. "Not to mention your lack of knowledge in the basic rules. But I suppose in your case, they've probably been relaxed a little." A frown. "Though I don't agree with what you're trying to do, not fully. Sounds dangerous to Weatherby."

With a sigh, Jack reluctantly outlined his plan more fully. Miyako leaned against the wall, fingers tapping at her arm, thinking in silence for a long moment, then all traces of hostility seemed to melt away – she smiled, slowly. "You know. That could just work, and I admit I've been a little annoyed at Lord Beckett for a while. Though you'd be breaking a remarkable number of rules. Not to mention you're going to need a little more… training."

"Don't know where t'begin, luv," Jack shrugged.

"I'd teach you. During the nights, when they're sleeping. I know where the Commodore's house is, I'd meet you there later." Miyako straightened up. "Just… no more interference with Weatherby without consultation, okay?" Her pleasant voice edged into a growl. "Or, angel or not, I am going to _thump_ you." Back to a bright grin. "_Sayonara_."

Jack blinked, startled. With a curtsey and a merry backward wave, menace dissipating abruptly, Miyako glided into Governor Swann's office.

As he flew out towards the direction of the fort, Jack wondered exactly why it was that he tended to accrue violently tempered women, of color or otherwise, about his person, even when already dead.

--

Norrington looked harried, in his office, alternating between reading dispatches and talking to a stream of marines of varying rank. After an hour or so, the details began to escape Jack, who was perched on the balcony. Thankfully, thinking 'invisible' now worked a treat, but he supposed he should really get along to finding out exactly how well the 'suggestion' of forgetfulness had worked.

During a lull in the visits, he sauntered over to the table, and decided to try the same trick he had previously pulled on Governor Swann. "Yer goin' t'think aloud wi' me on this, Commodore. How much d'ye remember o' last night? Speakin' softly now, 'cos ye got guards outside yer office."

Norrington actually stopped working, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Sparrow." A soft breath, shaped into his name. A wry smile. "Stealing rum." A sigh. "Wonder where he went this morning? The guest room didn't look slept in. And he wasn't… wasn't around when I woke up."

Oh, _good Lord_. Jack rolled his eyes. Did 'suggestion' not work with memory? Fine time to find out about _that_…

He was, however, now somewhat curious. "So what d'ye think o' Jack Sparrow, Commodore?"

Norrington bowed his head, but didn't speak. Jack peered at him, his head tilting forward at an alarming angle, beaded hair brushing the papers, but when the man continued to stay silent, he got bored, turning back and heading for the balcony. Perhaps he should just go and check on Beckett, perhaps drop a few 'suggestions' about being far too busy to bother pretty Commodores for the time being.

With one foot on the rail, the sounds of the guard changing somewhere below, Jack nearly missed the whispered words.

"God. It's true." A soft, harsh laugh, wracked with pain. "I want him."

In his shock, Jack nearly fell over said balcony.

Quickly, he stalked back to Norrington, waving his hands agitatedly in front of unseeing green eyes. "No. No ye don't, mate, 'cos, 'e's a pirate, an' a man, an' 'sides, ye 'ave th'… uh, th'social obligation t'settle down an' make little James Norringtons, savvy?"

That adorable little frown, as Norrington instinctively seemed to resist this idea.

Jack would have admitted to feeling very flattered, and not a little tempted, but… but… fundamental rules. Wrongness of taking advantage of vulnerable Commodores. Bad, _bad_ thoughts. Maybe if he was still alive… but he wasn't – that was the whole point. Norrington was alive. Jack was dead. That was really all there was to the issue. Going about seducing Norrington, with that in mind, and knowing he could never give him anything that wasn't an illusion at worst and temporary at best – that would be selfishness beyond even Jack's ability to properly conjecture, let alone perform. Also, there was the issue of the eternal damnation of his immortal soul.

He would finish this final job he had undertaken, and stay invisible all the while. Let Norrington think he'd gotten bored and left Port Royal. Jack took a deep breath of unnecessary air, and tested his conviction. "Yer goin' t'do yer best t'forget Jack Sparrow, Commodore, seein' as ye 'ave so many other problems at th'moment."

The lower lip trembled for a moment. A soft groan, eyes closing, and fingers rubbed at a temple. "Can't even get him out of my mind."

Jack gave up, and headed back for the balcony. It wasn't as though he could make the problem a bigger mess than he already had, right at this moment.

However, for the first time since he'd realized that his soul had been committed to eternity, Jack regretted, intensely, no longer being alive.

--

Thankfully, Beckett was more amenable to the 'too busy to torture pretty Commodores' suggestion than Jack had hoped for, and to be careful, Jack had firmly concentrated on 'invisible'. Just in case he ran into Beckett's guardian angel, if the man had one. It did feel unlikely, and it was just another question he'd have to ask Miyako.

To help in that suggestion, Jack had also dropped further 'suggestions' with random people in the EIC mansion regarding their sudden need to consult with Beckett over various trivialities over the next few days. Good. He'd bought himself some time – at least something seemed to be working out.

Bored, and not wanting to go back to Norrington as yet, he checked on Governor Swann again. Miyako, however, was firmly in place behind the man's shoulder, and her darkening expression, despite the polite greeting, promised violence if Jack lingered.

Pouting, Jack perched on top of the town hall's sloping roof, snapped his fingers, and said "_Black Pearl_." Nothing happened. He sighed, and lay down on the warm tiles, wryly amused to note that his clothes didn't smudge from it, and stared up at the sky.

It was another problem that had only just occurred to him. If nobody else was supposed to see him other than other guardian angels, if at all, then the rest of his 'job' was going to be terribly boring indeed. Jack wasn't a stranger to solitude, having manned sloops and little boats by himself across empty stretches of ocean before, but it was probably a special sort of torture to be surrounded by so many people and yet be unable to interact normally with them.

He asked Miyako about that later, when they sat on the flat roof of the Norrington mansion.

"Loneliness?" Miyako repeated, leaning back and glancing up at the moon. Her lip curled into a faint smile. "That's just the remainder of your humanity speaking. After maybe a few decades of guardianship, it just doesn't occur to you anymore." She looked pointedly at him. "You also tend to stop thinking you need to breathe, about then."

"Then what d'ye do when yer charge isn't doin' anythin' that needs yer attention?" Jack asked curiously, ignoring the snipe.

"Meditate on infinity," Miyako said, her tone daring Jack to say anything sarcastic. "Check on animals – they don't have guardians, and cats are grateful for it, plus they're probably one of the few creatures that can see us. A lot of guardians adopt a series of cats under their wing – hence the 'nine lives' myth circulating around humans."

"D'ye talk t'one another?" Jack wasn't sure how he felt about adopting cats.

"Sometimes. But not often – usually we make ourselves invisible even to other angels. Reduces the temptation to collaborate too much, to buy and sell in favors. We're only supposed to be looking out for the best interests of the charge, after all." A snort. "What you did to Weatherby – using 'suggestion' on another charge without the prior consent of his guardian – that's considered one of the worst forms of bad manners."

"Does Beckett have a… guardian angel?"

Miyako chuckled. "Yes. Everybody has one, except for rare… irregularities. Or, like you say, if we're reassigned, though that happens very infrequently. However, the degree to which each guardian angel looks out for his or her charge does depend on the charge's personality and conduct. I doubt Beckett's angel does very much more than, say, make sure he doesn't trip while going down the stairs. He might not even be around most of the time."

"So, people trip, or get hit by carts, or eaten by sea monsters when their guardians be takin' a breather?" Jack asked curiously.

"Sometimes it's inevitable, what happens," Miyako shrugged. "We can't stop humans from dying, sometimes violently. Men beat women to death. Men fight men on the sea, on the land, sometimes totally randomly. People freeze to death on the streets, die of illness. Things like that. But for the most part, dying to accidents does tend to be because of a lapse in attention. It's not really an issue up in Heaven, though there are occasionally decades-long debates over the degree of responsibility of guardian angels. Entertaining to listen to, but dangerous. Time passes differently in Heaven."

"Ah. But t'aint ye ignorin' yer charge now by talkin' t'me?"

"I have wards up around Weatherby's home. They'd tell me if anybody who shouldn't be there turns up, then I can go look into it," Miyako smirked. "Don't know how to do that, do you, Captain Sparrow?"

"Ye said ye was goin' t'train me," Jack pointed out.

"I know. But we'd leave that lesson to later. The first problem with you is that you're having to expend too much concentration being invisible. If you think of it as a natural state for yourself, it'd just flow normally. Like your urge to breathe – currently it's because you feel that it's a natural state of being."

"So… just think natural?" He could do that.

"Yes. Easy."

Actually, it wasn't, and Jack was beginning to feel a little strained, mentally, when dawn finally arrived and Miyako announced that she had better be getting back, and vanished. Jack reminded himself that instantaneous travel was the next thing he wanted to learn, and clambered down into the balcony, and frowned – very much unlike the Commodore, coat, dress shirt, hat and boots were strewn haphazardly on the ground. The man was still asleep. Jack shook his head wryly, and picked up after Norrington without thinking – hat and coat on the rack, shirt folded on the table, boots to one side of the bed, then climbed back up on the roof.

The relative stupidity of the gesture struck him only after he heard sounds of Norrington waking up. Jack leaned back on the roof, and groaned softly, smacking his forehead with the flat of his palm. No startled oaths could be heard, though, only a faint laugh, and the sound of Norrington going about dressing for work.

Jack frowned, waited until he could see the carriage headed out to the fort, then climbed back into the room. There was a note on the table.

'_I know you're hiding around here somewhere. Talk to me._'

The pirate snorted. So Norrington had probably left the clothes on the ground just to see if, by pure chance, Jack would happen over and take the bait. Well, that wouldn't happen again, for sure.

The next night there was a bottle of rum on the desk. Jack glared at the bottle, then at the gently snoring occupant of the bed, even as the sun began to come up behind him. He needed that. Especially since this night's training session had ended up with a very frustrated, cranky Oriental girl. His fingers stretched out for it, then he shook his head and pulled himself up short. No.

Oh, what the hell… it wouldn't hurt just to have a sniff…

Jack had closed his fingers around the neck of the bottle before he realized how he was very close to royally screwing up his duty again, and sighed, forcing himself to march over to the balcony and sulk. Damn Norrington! Why did it have to be rum?

He didn't look back when Norrington woke up, dressed, and left – though there was the sound of a quill being used at the table. Irritably, Jack wandered back to look.

'_Just take it, the rum's for you. I know you were here – take a closer look at the bottle. Talk to me. Please._'

Jack peered more closely at the bottle. There was a thin line of oil drawn around the neck, which had been smudged when he put his fingers there – as much as it hadn't actually stuck to his own skin due to his newfound, rather pesky angelic nature.

Muttering, he wrote on the paper just beneath Norrington's neat script. '_Don't want to. Leaving for Tortuga. Bored. No whelps._' And underlined the first three words, just to make his point clear. He did, however, take the rum.

--

The next few days slid into routine. Jack would steadfastly ignore whatever new offering Norrington put on the table at night – be it rum (so difficult), interesting looking little gewgaws or dispatches about the whereabouts of the Turners – and the notes. In the mornings he would go over to the EIC and lurk around Beckett's office, sometimes drop a few suggestions, then head over to the fort, look in on Norrington. During the afternoon he often stole food for and played with a mixed family of cats that seemed to have taken over a corner of the fort, careful to do so where there were no marines around at all. The lessons weren't progressing very smoothly, but Miyako seemed to have resolved to be patient. Jack felt perhaps that she too was grateful for the company, as disreputable as it was.

One night, however, Jack checked out the offerings out of habit, and sighed. "Oh, now that's just _cheatin'_, mate."

A half-opened scroll of a gorgeous watercolor painting of the _Black Pearl_, setting sail into the horizon away from Port Royal. No doubt just after Jack had escaped execution and fallen off the wall. The brush strokes were economical, and the colors and lines showed remarkable sensitivity. Jack couldn't help unrolling it and looking more closely at the artist's rendition of his beloved ship. Abruptly, he missed her so intensely that his throat clenched – missed the joyous way she took to open sea, the wild, eager way she would respond to any challenge the sea or her captain could bring her. He rubbed his fingers absently over the painting, his smile wry as he remembered the first time he had seen her, when he'd sold his soul. Majestic. Beautiful. Breathtaking. No words could do her justice, and he'd immediately given his heart away.

He pictured her in his mind – the warm hum of the helm under his hand, the way she sliced through the waves, the knowledge that there was an otherworldly personality about her that loved him back just as fiercely. At the bottom of the sea now, awaiting her next captain. Jack dipped his head, with a bitter twist to his lip.

"Like it?" Norrington asked softly.

Jack yelped, dropped the scroll and twisted around, silently cursing himself. Rum, his _Pearl_… they were two things too dear to him to have to remember the little formalities of staying invisible. Norrington sat up in the bed, swinging long legs over the side. "Commodore!"

"Mister Halsbury is a talented artist late of London – he decided to travel the Caribbean and expand his portfolio," Norrington walked over to Jack, standing a little too close for the pirate's comfort, as he pointed at the discreet little signature at the bottom right of the picture.

"'Tis pretty," Jack agreed, cautiously, edging away. "An' now I'd be goin'. Busy, ye know, bein' piratical."

Norrington's smile was wry. "I thought that if this didn't make you give pause, then you'd have left as you said, and the powder smudges on the balcony would have had to be left by cats or birds."

"Yer bloody sneaky, man," Jack shook his finger at the Commodore, backing away as the other man approached him, realizing he was going in the wrong direction – away from the balcony. He tried to circle around, but Norrington sidestepped.

"What I'd like to know, Sparrow, is why you've been visiting my bedchambers every night, while I've been asleep, and sometimes even my office?" Norrington asked pleasantly, though his green eyes smoldered with a barely-hidden promise that made Jack's prick twitch. Well. At least a certain bit of equipment was still in working condition. But bad, _bad_ time to find out… "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Yer under a _big_ misapprehension there, mate!" Jack said hastily, flailing his hands, as he realized exactly how the nightly visits probably appeared to the Commodore. "Biggest one o' th'century, t'be sure!"

"And how else am I supposed to interpret your… actions?" Norrington drawled. Jack realized he had been skillfully backed into the bed, just as he fell back onto the sheets, balancing himself automatically with wings and arms.

"Well, if ye be leavin' gifts fer birds out everyday, they tend t'come back," Jack pointed out the first thing that came to his mind, and let out an undignified squeak as Norrington leaned down against the edge of the bed, planting hands to either side of Jack's hips, the too-pretty face with its unbound hair coming up close.

"Jack." The pirate found himself pinned in place by intense green eyes, which held a longing so palpable that it pierced his heart. "Tell me now, that you don't want me, and I'll stop."

Jack glanced at the scroll, at the balcony, at his fingers, held up between their faces, down at his compass, then steeled himself to break Norrington's heart. "I don't want ye."

"Jack." Gentler, now. A hand cupped his cheek and forced him to meet the other man's eyes. "Look at me, when you say that. In the eyes."

How in the world did he always get into these scrapes? Jack felt he was probably going to be the first guardian angel in the history of, well, guardianship, that would need a guardian angel. He took a deep breath, biting his lip, fingers curling in the sheets, trembling, and thought of selfishness, of how warm the hand against his skin was – how Norrington was alive, and he was not. How Norrington deserved someone who could love him back in a way that wouldn't be essentially artificial.

He looked up, and forced himself to hold Norrington's gaze. For a very long moment, he couldn't speak, entranced. Norrington was baring his soul to him, the cool, iron guard absolutely down, and Jack wondered if this was how he looked when he had proposed to Elizabeth. Wondered what the damage would be like to the other man, necessary or not, if his heart was broken again – but Jack again tested his resolve, and found it unwavering. His voice was steady, when he spoke again. "I. Don't. Want. Ye."

Instead of backing off, however, Norrington leaned even closer, bringing his lips up against one ear. Jack felt, rather than heard, the whispered words. "Why is it I don't believe you?"

"Don't know, mate, 'cos m'dead serious, so ye'd better be doin' th'believin' an' getting' off me right now, or m'goin' to mmmh…" Warm lips pressed against his own, and a tongue flicked against the gap, questing for entrance. Jack permitted it before his brain could object, and even found himself moaning softly, fingers coming up to carefully hold Norrington's head between his palms as the other man leisurely, a little clumsily, explored his mouth. Heat. Want. Need. They broke only briefly for air – Norrington's benefit, and this time Jack kissed the other man first, pulling him down, body eager for the attention, so much warmth and gentleness.

And he caught a glimpse of the 'P' scar on his arm when he pulled back – a dash of cold water over his fever. Jack forced his eyes to focus, then he sharply jabbed at the elbow joint of Norrington's left arm, while flattening boots on the sheets and scrambling to his right. The other man overbalanced with a gasp of surprise as his arm gave, and Jack was free – running for the balcony, knowing he only had to jump over the rail, and think very hard about disappearing from sight.

He sprawled on the grass, wings spread to either side, as he watched Norrington appear at the balcony and look around wildly, then brace himself against the rail and take deep, sobbing breaths that punctuated a string of incoherent oaths. Jack closed his eyes, and wondered if it were possible to be fundamentally, naturally inept at being a guardian angel.

--

"Weatherby's sent out the invites," Miyako said, when Jack went to check in on her and the Governor. They sat at the rail of balcony overlooking the marketplace. "The soiree will be in a month or so, depending on when he gets replies. Nothing to London, that'd take too long – mostly just to the surrounding British ports."

"Beckett?"

"I dropped by, suggested very strongly that Weatherby is really only doing this because he misses his daughter and wants to talk to some old friends." Miyako pulled a face. "I think you're a bad influence, Jack." Somewhere along the line they had both, without verbally doing so, agreed to call each other by first names, rather than skirting around formalities. It seemed more appropriate.

Jack smirked, stretching his feet out over empty air. "All in a good cause, luv. D'ye think Beckett bought it?"

"There's nothing he can really do about it, now that the invites have already been sent out," Miyako pointed out. "And there were no real formal RSVPs, just generic announcements that Governor Weatherby Swann is holding a little social gathering and he invites whoever's interested and free of etcetera to attend." A little smirk. "That way, Beckett can't really vet the guest list."

"But th'whole point was t'invite nobs that 'ave th'power t'do somethin' 'bout Beckett," Jack pointed out. "May not work wi' a generic invite."

"Those were the official invites," Miyako grinned. "There were… some unofficial ones, sent by more trusted couriers. Along the lines of how Weatherby is feeling a little uncomfortable by the edge of power that Beckett is consolidating here in the Caribbean and the possible consequences, and how he would like to talk… terms. Discuss the issue, in a sociable way." She poked Jack in the arm. "Don't think Weatherby is stupid, just because he's a little more susceptible to suggestions than Beckett."

"Wouldn't dream o' it," Jack relaxed. "Ye know, if ye really wanted t'get Weatherby out o' Beckett's control ye just 'ave t'get 'Lizabeth back to Port Royal."

"Difficult, probably impossible," Miyako said instantly. "We're bound to a circle of influence that centers around our charges. Wherever Elizabeth Swann is, I can't reach her, let alone help her."

"Ah," Jack pouted. That meant no visits to his _Pearl_, either. Which was a pity – he needed to feel the reassurance of her presence, after the absolute mess he'd been making of his determination.

"How's your guardianship coming along?" Miyako asked, peering down at a brief disagreement between a merchant and a man with a donkey.

"I think I'm beginnin' t'spook him out." Jack related briefly his problems with smudging powder marks on rails.

Miyako rolled her eyes. "That's yet another habit you have to watch. Thinking that you're bound to natural rules. Until you've accomplished that, I suppose you could just will the powder back to its original state after you've finished checking." A dry chuckle. "Powder on the balcony. Suspicious sort, isn't he? Your charge, I mean."

"Aye," Jack rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His lips tingled at the memory of gentle warmth.


	5. Stormy Petrel

Author's note: Terrible historical manipulation. There is no such thing as a Earl of Southsend.

Chapter 5

Stormy Petrel

Jack sat on the roof of the harbormaster's office with Miyako, watching the first ships of guests to the soiree dock with something approaching sheer relief.

The past few weeks had been extremely trying. Not only was he bored, out of having really nothing to do but wait for plans to be set in motion, he was burdened by guilt – an emotion that he wasn't very familiar with. The gifts had stopped a week back, with Jack being careful about powders, various other little traps and invisibility. Norrington had changed from an amused state of equilibrium that seemed akin to the confident, sarcastic Commodore Jack was used to, to with to a listless shadow of his former self. The damage seemed worse, overall, than what Beckett had done.

He supposed he couldn't really blame the Commodore. It had likely been a definite prop to his self-worth – and of course, a much-needed distraction – for somebody (even somebody who was technically a natural enemy) to want him so apparently (though Jack would maintain that he really, really didn't realize how the nightly visits would look to an observer). Norrington probably hadn't expected Jack to actually resist, let alone disappear completely off the face of Port Royal. What was worse, the occasional 'check' on his mental state showed that, rather predictably, Norrington was blaming himself for the disappearance – too forward, too intense.

Not to mention that occasionally, and to his consternation, Jack found Norrington shackled in dreams of a decidedly salacious nature involving his person when he checked on the man at night. Whenever Miyako felt like taking a break from training. He'd watched, fascinated, perched on the table, the first time, as the man writhed and moaned so prettily, rubbing himself against the sheets, his body instinctively seeking friction, then the pirate had fled with a guilty start when, with a shudder, at the end, lips shaped his name. _Jack_.

Erasing _that_ seductive memory and the temptation had required some constructive thievery from the local tavern.   
Miyako had been a little surprised when Jack insisted the next day that he'd pay visits on her at Weatherby Swann's residence for lessons.

When exactly had the Commodore actually started wanting him, anyway? When they were in the same area, last time, be it in Port Royal or on the decks of his _Pearl_, Norrington had always given Jack the impression that he absolutely detested him – and that his continued downtrodden luck was wholly Jack's fault. In fact, Jack had rather thought Norrington had stolen the heart simply as an act of malicious revenge.

Further speculation was cut short as a very elegant luxury ship cruised in to dock, flanked by warships. Jack blinked, as Miyako poked at his arm. "What?"

"Stop daydreaming," she said, and poked him again for good measure. "Look at that ship."

"What 'bout it?" Jack squinted. From here, he couldn't exactly make out the script at the prow.

"The _Stormy Petrel_." Miyako's black eyes gleamed with excitement. "Flagship of the Earl of Southsend. East India Company. I think he's the best chance we have."

"Daughter?" Jack asked, peering at the ship. Red-coated marines scurried around it in excitement.

"Sister, actually. Victor Arthur Tembury-Lysander is twenty-five, I believe Weatherby said. His twin sister is our eligible flower of English womanhood, Lady Katherine Tembury-Lysander." During the last few weeks, Miyako had picked up some of Jack's verbal mannerisms, to the pirate's amusement and to the petite Oriental woman's consternation.

"What makes ye think she'd be any interested in th'Commodore? Ain't it marryin' down, fer her?" Jack asked curiously. He wasn't very clear on Norrington's own… pedigree. Heh. But vaguely, he'd rather have thought that an Earl's sister would be far too high up.

"Weatherby said something along the lines of lurid gossip suggesting that Lady Katherine – perhaps aptly named – is prone to being seen on the arm of a different man every month, and all uncaring of the possible scandal that could be attributed to her name. The Earl of Southsend being powerful, and wealthy enough to provide a remarkable dowry, however, stills all but the most malicious of tongues." Miyako outlined the profile with a dramatic flair, revealing that she was likely enjoying the matchmaking business far more than Jack. "He has also been known to remark that he would like to see his sister… settled down, to any man of her choice. So long as, well, she settles down. Her last little fancy dug deep into his pocket."

"What fancy?" It was entirely possible, Jack decided, that Governor Swann somehow accumulated more gossip than ladies of leisure, even fishwives.

"A pet that she takes nearly everywhere with her," Miyako shrugged. "But I think her brother has a matching twin. Oh. There it is."

Jack watched in disbelief as a lady, dressed in extremely boyish riding gear – her only real concession to femininity a long, flowing white skirt worn over jodhpurs and elbow-length gloves, led a pawing black mare out onto the deck. She mounted it, circled once, and jumped the horse expertly over the side. Marines scrambled out of the way. Hooves skidded on the docks as it landed, and she waved to the men who rushed to the rail. Even from this distance, Jack could see that the one in the shiniest clothing was shaking his head as he disappeared below decks. And came back leading a very similar horse – but a stallion – but took it sedately down the gangplank instead.

His mouth was open. "Y'sure that's th'sister o' an Earl?"

"Raised in Montserrat, along with her brother. Governor Swann said they were possibly allowed to run a little too wild, since at that time they weren't inheriting and weren't really in favor. There was an older brother who did, up until recently. Illness of some sort." Miyako got to her feet, tugging at Jack's sleeve. "Come on."

Grumbling quietly at his tendency to accrue very pushy women, Jack followed Miyako down to the docks in a slow glide. Lady Katherine had dismounted, and her brother the Earl had caught up. Reins were handed to a frazzled-looking footman in crested dark blue livery, and they were chatting with a group of curious Port Royal social elite. Governor Swann occasionally put in a word or so. Miyako plucked at his sleeve again, and pointed – Lord Beckett was approaching, having just alighted from a carriage, his face carefully expressionless. Norrington's features seemed to shut down as he came closer – the man looked away, as if very interested in the make of the _Stormy Petrel _rather than the current exalted company.

"The Earl of Southsend, and Lady Katherine Tembury-Lysander," Lord Beckett smiled, but there was nothing friendly in it. "Welcome to Port Royal."

"Lord Cutler Beckett." The Earl inclined his head. Only slightly taller than Jack, the Earl of Southsend still cut a striking figure in what was probably his 'tastefully dressed-down sailing outfit' – a dark brown coat, elaborately embroidered at the edges with gold thread, soft pale leather breeches, belts with intricate buckles across hips. A pale white scarf instead of a cravat, and a tricorn that put Jack's battered one to shame with its complex trimming. Wheat-gold hair was bound back by a blue ribbon, and the youthful face, all smile lines and firm jaw, was elegantly attractive. Ice-blue eyes, however, were coolly calculating.

Lady Katherine resembled her brother closely – she had the same blue eyes and bound long gold hair under her riding cap. Sun-hued strands curled over her pale blue riding outfit like erratic brocade. Where the Earl was handsome, she was gorgeous, if a head shorter. Her riding jacket did little to hide her curves, and she handled herself with unconscious, feline grace where her brother moved with the careful control of a wolf. She stretched a gloved hand out for Beckett to kiss, her smile mischievous "Why, Lord Beckett. I do believe we haven't met – you have yet to grace any of the little social parties around these parts. I do hope you intend to remedy that travesty at the Governor's expense."

Lord Beckett smirked, even as he went through the formalities. "Perhaps so. In the meantime, it would be my honor to extend to you the hospitalities of the Port Royal branch of the East India Company." He glanced at the Earl as he said this, his modulated tone in itself an unruffled challenge. Like hounds squaring off over territory. Jack was aware that Miyako was snickering in a very unladylike fashion somewhere at his elbow.

Lady Katherine, however, immediately linked her hand on her brother's arm, her smile artfully merry. "I'm sure Victor and I will be absolutely charmed, Lord Beckett, but Governor Swann was generous enough to offer us the use of his home."

Jack and Miyako exchanged glances. She looked surprised. "They're a team," Jack said, gesturing at how the Earl proceeded to prevail on Governor Swann to introduce just about everybody to his sister. Velvet glove, steel gauntlet. "Ye sure ye looked close enough on why she ain't married?"

"Are you suggesting…?" Miyako gasped, shocked.

"No, no. Not that," Jack said, glancing back at the twins. "I meant… I think th'Earl o' Southsend, an' said pillar o' th'East India Company… s'really two people. A double act, an' a good one." Marriage would probably be disruptive to their little arrangements.

Miyako arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Watch." Jack sidled up next to the pair, as they were speaking to some matronly Lady clad, despite the stifling heat, in a remarkable number of dead animals. That is to say, furs. "If she feels 'e should do th'talkin', her hand moves t'the right, just a wee bit. If he wants her t'speak, his hand moves down a little. Pretty sure there're more signs we be missin', but they be coordinatin' each other's reactions t'everythin'."

A frown. "But why?"

"'Cos there be some things a lady can say that a man can't, an' vice versa." Lady Katherine spoke charmingly and prettily to the matronly Lady, but the Earl was the one to reply to the woman's husband's question about their voyage. Each time, Lady Katherine was the sibling who spoke to Lord Beckett, whenever the man made any mention at all of business, airily talking about the weather, horses or fashion – and the Earl was the one to speak to Governor Swann, whenever the man asked about family, his replies tersely polite. Each sibling was the other's shield, and sword.

Jack and Miyako watched closely as the introductions moved down to the Commodore, who smiled politely, shaking hands with the Earl, brushing his lips over the gloved hand of his sister. The Earl's arm moved, and his weight shifted almost imperceptibly onto his left foot. Lady Katherine blushed prettily, on cue, and smiled shyly at Norrington. "We hear so much about your exploits over at Monserrat, Commodore. Did you really find a pirate treasure island in the middle of the sea?"

"Now, now, Katherine," the Earl said indulgently. "We can't really be bothering the Commodore with such flights of fancy."

A skillful setup. Would the Commodore show himself to be a ladies' man, by chivalrously going to Lady Katherine's rescue, or the uptight British officer, agreeing with the brother? Either way, Jack knew that would instantly cue calculation, speculation. To discard, to befriend, or to control. Very probably not a good choice for a vulnerable Norrington already struggling under another man's thumb…

Jack turned to Miyako, dismissing Lady Katherine as a good match. "An' who's our second best choice?"

Norrington, however, was speaking, his smile wry, green eyes darting between the both of them. Jack let out a breath – obviously, the Commodore had picked up on the subtleties of the twins' silent interactions. "You'd be surprised, Lord Tembury-Lysander, how many flights of fancies cross my desk in the form of official reports every week. Treasure, however, does seem to be a popular topic amongst the ladies, perhaps inappropriately so."

A pointed look at the sapphire-studded pendant at Lady Katherine's throat, and just the faintest hint of disparaging wit. Jack, circling behind Norrington, saw the Earl's eyes flicker slightly, and both twins smiled, faintly, very briefly – acknowledging that they knew that Norrington had found them out, and were impressed. "Will we be seeing you at the soiree, Commodore?" Lady Katherine asked playfully.

"I'm sure James can take time off his busy schedule," Governor Swann said, with a benign smile. Beckett looked thoughtfully at him, then at Norrington, then back at Lady Katherine.

Norrington glanced at Governor Swann, rather suspiciously, then shrugged, evidently thinking there was no real harm in acceding. "I suppose so."

"Wonderful!" Lady Katherine clapped her hands in girlish delight, then her hand went back onto her brother's arm, her forefinger pressing lightly into the cloth. The Earl said something politely dismissive, and they were introduced to some other couple.

Jack looked skeptically at their backs, then at Miyako. "I was sayin'…"

"Don't worry. I looked at the guest list. There are lots of… possibilities." Miyako looked as though she were enjoying herself thoroughly. "How romantic! It's as though the Commodore is a prince, and all these women are potential consorts."

"More like 'e's prime meat an' all th'ladies be lookin' t'buy," Jack drawled.

Miyako shot him a dirty look.

--

The Earl was really the only one of noticeable rank amongst the newcomers – the rest of title were typically barons and their daughters, come to Jamaica to dabble in trade. And there were other affluent women, daughters of merchant princes, who tended towards more somber clothing. None of them seemed particularly appropriate for Norrington. Jack remarked this to Miyako, as they watched yet another merchant ship dock in Port Royal, this time closer up, from atop a stack of crates. Someone dressed alarmingly in a bright yellow and red dress descended the gangway, escorted by her plump father.

Miyako rolled her eyes. "You're beginning to sound like he's your son. Remember, we're not matchmaking, we're merely presenting… opportunities, for him to choose."

"Not matchmakin'?" Jack raised an eyebrow, ignoring the comment about overprotectiveness. "Y'sure?"

"Okay. Maybe a little." Miyako admitted. "If you say Lady Katherine is a dangerous choice… I rather like Lady Evelyn. Or maybe Miss Hatherway. Both very pretty. Rich. Important fathers in the East India Company. Young. Wide hips, children would be easy."

Jack wasn't sure he really wanted to know about that last bit. "We're not exactly selectin' cows here, luv."

"It's an important consideration," Miyako pointed out. "Narrow hips, difficult childbirth, complications and maybe death." She pursed her lips. "This new one… Lady Rosemary? Too thin. Too thin and you can't have children. Forehead not high, maybe stupid."

The brightly-dressed lady in question seemed to be trying to hide behind her father, blushing, fluttering an embroidered fan, almost painfully shy, brown eyes wide as she took in the busy dock.

"Though… some men, they like her sort." Miyako added, with disdain. Lady Rosemary squealed in shock as, at the harbor proper, a cat ran across her path. She dropped the fan. Men scrambled to pick it up for her. "Somebody fluffy to protect. But since Norrington's previous love is Miss Elizabeth, I doubt Lady Rosemary will really be his type."

"I think 'e'd be lookin' fer… brains, and pretty," Jack tapped his lip. "An' fire, like 'Lizabeth."

Miyako was definitely far more amused with their ploy than Jack was. "We could split up. Scope out the ladies. See which ones match those attributes… and arrange things."

"What happened t'merely presentin' opportunities?" Jack grinned.

Miyako rolled her eyes. "Obviously, we're only going to be presenting _practical_ opportunities. It's not meant to be a short-term solution, is it? You said you were thinking of grounding Norrington with a family. That's a lifelong commitment."

"Aye," Jack nodded, faintly annoyed at himself for feeling… possessive. That Norrington would settle down, with a girl, have kids. Forget a dead pirate. Look at another person with the same intensity in those incredible green eyes.

Miyako guessed at the source of Jack's distraction, if a little inaccurately. She patted his arm comfortingly. "That's the way it gets with the first charge. You start feeling… motherly. Fatherly, in your case. Too protective. It's better to just interfere minimally, in this part of their lives."

Jack managed a shade of his usual impish grin. "An' did ye interfere a lot wi' Weatherby's choice o' partner?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. Weatherby's my third case. Or… the marriage probably wouldn't have gone ahead. I mentioned something earlier about narrow hips, didn't I?"

"I s'pose so."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching as Lady Rosemary's essential luggage was unloaded. And unloaded. And unloaded. Even Miyako was impressed. "Goodness. Does her father own an army of tailors?"

--

Somewhere in the midst of playing with the fort's cat family (he'd decided, after all, under Miyako's influence, to formally adopt them) via being chased around a small space (slowly) by mottled ginger kittens, Jack struck upon a great idea. He stopped abruptly, kittens piling up over his boots in a squirming, mewling tide. Careful not to squash anything, he sat down, allowing them to climb into his lap, holding up his favorite – a ginger kitten with a white belly and two white paws (one forepaw, one hind) and green eyes, which, as usual, instantly attempted to claw and bite him. Jack grinned at it. He'd already named it (and most of the other kittens, though they were a little harder to pick out). "See, James, there be two men in this problem after all. An' so far I only really be lookin' at how t'solve it centerin' on one."

James the kitten, unconcerned, tried to hiss at him, but grudgingly mewed instead when he put it on one palm and stroked tiny little ears. "There be Beckett, an' Norrington. So far I be thinkin', everythin' would be solved if Norrington got married. But what if Beckett did that? Mebbe 'e'd then have better things t'do."

The creature he was speaking to ignored him, instead nibbling on one of Jack's fingers. Jack stared thoughtfully at it, then absently reached down to break up some roughhousing. "Hey, hey. Steady on yer brothers an' sisters, when the lot o' ye be too close t'delicate equipment. An' no bitin' wings."

Jack scratched at his neck with his free hand, watching James the kitten paw at his thumb. Perhaps the idea wasn't that good, after all.

"Or it may not change anythin'. Could be 'e'd just control his wife, an' th'Commodore. Worse, it could give Beckett more power." Jack nibbled at his lip, even as he put James the kitten back gently on the ground, watching it attempt to savage his boots. He looked up towards a balcony on a higher floor. At least the real James' mood seemed to have improved, around when the arrivals were petering to a halt. He hadn't been able to bring himself to ask Norrington why via 'suggestion', not really wanting to hear the answer.

They were in the space between the administrative building proper and the barracks. Jack leaned against a rainwater barrel and patted the ginger mother cat as she returned from a bowl of cream (stolen… borrowed, as it were, from the Commodore's pantry). She slid lazily into his lap, nudging out the kittens, and purred as he petted warm fur. "So. Mebbe not so good an idea. 'Sides, m'not sure I really want t'foist Beckett off on some poor unsuspecting gel. T'will be right cruel."

James the kitten climbed on top of maternal flanks, and sprawled onto its side. It hissed at William the kitten when said sibling attempted to follow suit. William cowered. Jack poked James in the side, and put William up on the furry side. "Now, we're s'posed t'be sharin', here." He supposed he really should talk to Miyako.

--

"Just do what you think is better." Miyako was absolutely absorbed in watching Governor Swann plan out table settings, finger foods, appropriate wines and decorations. She made a distracted, noncommittal sound when Jack described the problem, caught up instead in living vicariously through her charge. Not for the first time, Jack wondered who Miyako had been, when she had been alive.

Giving that up as a bad job, Jack went to look in on Beckett, who was not at his office. He checked briefly around the EIC mansion, then decided to try another trick. "Beckett." Snapped fingers.

Smudged painting effects, and he was in the air above the meadows beyond Port Royal. There was a confused, panicky moment as he plummeted, then he banked, looking down.

Beckett was out riding with the Earl and Lady Katherine, followed discreetly by several footmen, Mister Mercer, and various other people apparently essential to people of status. Jack hovered closer, but was bored – Beckett and the Earl were merely discussing foxhunting grounds in England, the pedigree of the white stallion, the black horses, and the sport of kings. Lady Katherine rode between them, occasionally intersecting with some playful anecdote whenever the conversation turned to business.

Jack pouted, not liking how this was turning out. Beckett wasn't supposed to be getting close to said rival East India Company lords…

He supposed it was only courtesy, since they were likely… peers, and associates in business – but he didn't exactly see the other merchant princes of the Company invited along on the ride. Then again, none of them were rich and powerful Earls, either.

"… I would have thought that you would have been far too busy to come to this little affair," Beckett was remarking, possibly attempting to find a chink in the Earl's armor (Lady Katherine) simply by persistence. Perhaps he felt that while riding, the system of body language cues would be disrupted, and something would slip past. Jack didn't doubt that Beckett likely had noticed the twins' subtle little play.

"Poor Victor dotes far too much on me," Lady Katherine smiled sweetly, parrying neatly. "I wished to take a look at this fast growing little harbor town, so he had to oblige. But you're a long way from Madras, Lord Beckett. How does it compare?"

Beckett smirked, unsurprised that both brother and sister were equally well informed. "It's quieter. But not too bad."

"I heard that you came here bearing arrest warrants for Commodore Norrington, and Governor Swann's daughter," the Earl said off-handedly, as if he wasn't really curious but simply was thinking of something to say.

"Oh? Do tell," Lady Katherine's red lips formed a little 'o' of apparent scandalized shock.

"Ah. It turns out there was simply a misunderstanding," Beckett shrugged. "As you can see, the Commodore has been reinstated. I'm not sure where Miss Swann is or what she's doing, but she won't be a criminal when she returns."

"A mistake corrected by your efforts," the Earl continued, as they slowed to a sedate trot. "Very commendable, if a little surprising."

Another smirk. "Of course. To do anything less would be grave injustice. The Commodore is very capable."

Lady Katherine immediately started a long train of inquiry involving the very smart dress uniforms of British Naval Officers, leaving Jack to wonder at the subtext of the conversation.

--

The next day the cats were gone. Rather taken aback, Jack checked in all of their favorite parts of the fort (kitchen, corner of barracks, entrance, token garden), then finally returned to the rain barrel spot, and noticed a white card wedged between that and the wall. He picked it up. Written in Norrington's neat handwriting was a brief description of a given location outside of Port Royal, and a time.

Jack frowned. How had Norrington guessed…?

The cream. The stolen bowl. Jack groaned, and wondered how he'd managed to be so bloody _obvious_ and not even realize it.

He went to the specified area early. It was really just a grassy cliff that overlooked the sea, hidden from the meadows by thick copses of trees. Sat down, cross-legged, and waited, sulkily looking out to sea. Making sure he was visible, save the wings, and with some effort, managed to cast a shadow. The spot was far enough from the port, to be relatively private though he could still see the faint outlines of ships anchored offshore, to his left. Gulls wheeled below, scything over his view of the pristine white beach.

When he heard steps through the soft turf behind him, he muttered, "What did ye do t'the cats?"

"They've just been temporarily moved to an empty stall in the stables," Norrington said pleasantly. He sat down next to Jack, though without touching him. The Commodore was in his semi-formal administrative outfit – the works, but without the inner dress coat. "It didn't take very long for me to connect a complaint from my housekeeper that someone's been at the cream and that a bowl had been stolen, with overheard gossip from the men that the fort cats have been looking far sleeker than normal."

"I only took a wee bit each time," Jack inspected his still unnervingly clean nails. "An' I was goin' t'return th'bowl, just forgot 'bout it." A sidelong glance of annoyance. "I thought ye'd be above kidnappin' innocent furry animals, mate."

"They weren't kidnapped. Just relocated. And better fed," Norrington stretched long legs out over the grass, and leaned back. "Also, one of them tried to bite me."

"That's probably James," Jack smirked as Norrington glanced over and arched an eyebrow.

"You named a kitten after me?" Norrington asked dryly.

"Th'most bad tempered one," Snide.

"I'm not bad tempered."

"Ye'd be surprised how many bad tempered people say they ain't bad tempered, mate."

A wry chuckle. Silence, and the shrill calls of birds, wheeling beneath them. Jack turned his gaze back to the far-away outlines of ships, gray and brown against the vast blue.

"Where have you been?" Norrington asked finally, deciding to change the subject. He didn't look at Jack, but at the beach far below.

"M'not tellin'."

"Did you go to Tortuga?"

"I may have."

Norrington sighed, and dipped his head, then spoke quietly. "All right. I'm sorry."

Jack blinked. "Fer what?"

"For… that night, well, for being too aggressive." Hesitant.

"Oh, that. Don't worry, mate. I don't hold it against ye."

"Then why'd you just disappear?"

"Seems better that way," Jack replied absently. "Don't get me wrong, 'tis not like I wasn't tempted, but a man o' yer rank, s'posed t'be thinkin' o' th'future…" He paused suddenly, realizing he'd let slip a little too much.

Norrington had noticed – the man was wearing a sweet, almost silly grin. Warm green eyes that twinkled with suppressed joy. Too attractive, even with that bloody ridiculous wig. "What makes you think that I haven't been considering the future?"

"The lack o' a gel an' kids, p'haps?" Jack said hastily, and decided to advance the cause that he and Miyako had so painstakingly constructed up to date. "There be lots o' pretties around here'bouts now, ye should go fishin' a little."

A snort, then Norrington leaned over, close enough such that warm breath ghosted over Jack's lips. Hats bumped – Jack's was displaced. "Now. What makes you think I'm interested in having… a girl, and children?"

"There was 'Lizabeth," Jack suggested, knowing he should really pull away, but not being able to.

"That was then," Norrington countered. Lips parted invitingly.

Jack groaned. "I am _so_ going t'hell."


	6. Compromises

Author's note: Good lord. Extremely long dialogue. More possible OOC.

Chapter 6

Compromises

His next coherent thought, in the midst of being lazily kissed into submission by Norrington under the late Caribbean afternoon sun, was '_Miyako is going t'kill me._'

Norrington frowned and pulled back, arching an eyebrow, and Jack realized he'd said that out loud. The Commodore was panting quite prettily, pressed up against Jack's side on the grass, one hand around the small of the pirate's back, the other stroking his cheek. "Who's Miyako?"

Jack closed his eyes, fought down the grin at the edge of jealous suspicion so obvious in Norrington's voice, and rested his forehead against the other man's shoulder. He considered the relative sins of a guardian angel sleeping with his charge, accepting proffered affections and hence royally screwing over said charge's life, as compared to showing him irrefutable evidence of why he may have to consider going to church regularly. Doing the wrong thing, but in lesser degrees. And Oriental guardian angels, furious at him breaking up carefully laid plans.

"She's a guardian angel," he said, quietly.

Norrington stared at him, then tilted his head and chuckled. "Is that some sort of euphemism?"

"No. Listen, mate. There's somethin' ye really should know." Jack prodded Norrington's shoulder. "I died, out at sea, wi' me _Pearl_, t'the giant beastie."

A snort. Hands patted his cheek, then fingers pressed over his heart. Felt the beat of a habit that was very difficult for Jack's body to stop. "I think you've been out in the sun too long, Jack."

First names, already. Jack, however, felt no pleasure – his answer was a wry, sad smile. "Watch." He willed his wings to stop being invisible.

There was a sharp inhalation of breath. A wide-eyed stare of shock that was only comical – one hand closed on his wrist in a bruising grip. Norrington opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, his mind unable to process the words required. Jack bowed his head, his lip quirking, and poked at the restraining fingers. "Right. Now ye know. An' that's exactly why I said it wasn't a good idea, mate, y'know, courtin' me."

Norrington didn't let him go, instead tentatively pushing fingers into soft feathers, stroking the white arch of the wing. "Incredible." Fingers stroked circles down to his back, tracing muscles that could not have existed when Jack was alive. The pirate grit his teeth. That felt far, far better than it should have, blasphemously so, and he was fighting the urge to purr. "So you er, made it to Heaven."

Jack rolled his eyes. It seemed that whenever Norrington was in a state of shock, he tended simply to say the first thing that came to his mind, however ill fitting. "Ye thought otherwise?"

"What's it like?" Norrington asked the most predictable question, curiously.

"Ye'd find out mebbe in fifty years, mate," Jack tugged irritably at the fingers on his wrist, deciding he didn't really want to go into details about clerical errors. "Ye goin' t'let me go, or not?"

"No." Norrington said firmly, and pulled Jack into his lap. Sprawled over long legs, his head tucked under the Commodore's chin, Jack yelped, squirming, wings arcing behind him for balance.

He growled, twisting, then gave up as an arm curled around his side, holding him in place. "Commodore."

"James." Norrington corrected.

"Want t'tell me why ye'd be… why ye'd be doin'…" Jack took a deep breath, and reorganized his thoughts. "M'dead, mate. T'aint right. T'aint nothin' in this fer ye."

"I killed you, didn't I. Indirectly," Norrington said softly, the hand on his wrist going up to pet a wing, exploring crisp white feathers. "Is that why you're here?"

"Nope," Jack said quickly. "Totally opposite reason. An' I've already broken enough… rules, showin' ye this." A deep sigh. "Kissin' ye."

"How can it be wrong?" Norrington murmured, removing Jack's hat and placing it on the grass, then nuzzling his hair.

"How can it _not_ be wrong?" Jack poked the warm arm around his waist. "M'sure there's lots o' examples written down somewhere, th'sin o' an angel consortin' wi' a human. An' there be good reason. I can't make ye happy. T'aint real, an' sooner or later, I'd have t'go."

"Nobody can stay with another person for eternity," Norrington shrugged, muscles moving under Jack. More softly, "And you're already making me happy. Like this."

Jack groaned, wondering why Commodores had to choose the worst times to be absolutely illogical and stubborn to the point that pirates felt their conviction beginning to erode. "Look, mate. I won't age wi' ye. An' I'm not even warm anymore. I have no reflection an' I don't cast shadows. After a while, I won't even have… human traits. I'd forget t'breathe." A sigh. "Mebbe I'd forget how t'want another person." A pause. "Ye know, a normal, sane person would'a run screamin' by now. Summat like that. Mebbe gone into denial." A growl. "An' a normal person would'a accepted me logic 'bout how this relationship can't work out, wi'out givin' me so much grief."

Norrington seemed to ignore him, instead gently pulling at one wing, studying how muscles flexed. "So. What do you do nowadays? Haunt other people?"

The absolutely surreal nature of this conversation was beginning to unnerve Jack, and he'd had his share of surreal conversations over the past few months. "Ye know, I'd feel better if ye went into hysterics."

Norrington glanced down and arched an eyebrow at him. "Should I?"

"Mm." So warm. Nice, masculine scent. Starch.

"All right." Norrington tilted his head again, and intoned in a dry voice, as if reading off some invisible script, "Oh God, Jack, you're dead, and you're an angel, I can't believe my eyes and I think I've probably either been working too hard, or going insane, or both. And I just kissed you, which is probably blasphemous in every religion, but I really want to do it again, and possibly suggest further blasphemous things to do to your person." A pause. "Sufficient? And where's your halo?"

"Ye really should be takin' this seriously, mate," Jack pouted, ignoring the way a certain part of his body stirred with interest at Norrington's words.

"Coming from you, I suppose I really should give pause," Norrington retorted. "Really, Jack. After what your actions have put me through for the past… few months… was it undead pirates, and Davy Jones' rather singular crew, you'd think my grasp of reality would be somewhat less stubborn."

"Just so ye know, bein' an angel is why I was checkin' in on ye at nights," Jack said sulkily. He disliked it when people didn't react the way he thought they would.

"I'm still flattered," Norrington informed him dryly, and punctuated this by pressing a kiss on dreadlocks.

"No, I meant… I'm s'posed to," Jack said, before realizing he had previously decided not to say anything about guardianship.

"Why?" Norrington, to Jack's dismay, came upon the reason himself. "You mentioned some person… angel… called Miyako. Are you a guardian angel now?" the smooth voice was all but vibrating with suppressed laughter. "Because if you are, that would be absolutely… ironic."

"'Tis not funny," Jack muttered.

"So, whose guardian angel are you?" Norrington smirked into his hair. "Should I start checking in on newborn babies in Port Royal? Warn the parents, perhaps?"

"Yours, mate," Jack said irritably, deciding that since he'd already gone this far, he might as well simply go all the way. "Yer previous one was reassigned, around a little before when ye first met me, an' they didn't have enough t'go 'round t'give ye a replacement. Hence, apparently, all th'bad luck."

"So you're Heaven's way of an apology?" Norrington patted a wing, fascinated by the soft textures. "If so, I rather think I'd accept."

Jack rolled his eyes. "T'aint that at all. They think that everythin' that's happened t'ye so far is me fault, so I should make up fer it. In return, if they think I'm doin' a decent job, then I'd get accepted t'Heaven. There. Nothin' bout apologies. Ye know, that's possibly a sign o' an ego bigger than mine, ye assumin' that straight off." It was definitely not logical. Why would Heaven want to apologize to a human?

Though, then again, it sounded suspiciously… true. If Norrington had already been… wronged, by the bureaucracy, why send someone without training and who was likely to, given his past record, bungle or make mischief, out to guard said person? Ensure his happiness? Why not simply assign Jack to any other person?

No, that didn't seem right. They could simply restore Jack to the living, not give him all this business with wings and responsibilities under the threat of high stakes… wait.

Being an angel had, so far to date, made Jack think more about what was right and wrong, see more clearly how consequences stacked from his actions, than he ever had in his life. If one looked at it that way…

Or it could simply be his rather palpable and selfish wish to want to be with the very handsome man currently cradling him in his lap that was shaping that thought. Besides, Jack wasn't sure whether Higher Powers would be so concerned over the fate of a single Commodore in the face of infinity to go about so much trouble to ensure his happiness, in such a convoluted way. And all his previously voiced fears about how being an angel would change him out of being anything human enough to make said Commodore happy, were all valid, as well.

"I'm sorry to say this, but that sounds no more logical than my theory," Norrington said mildly, having come to the same conclusions as Jack had. "You're not exactly… very capable guardian angel material, are you?"

Jack thought a little guiltily of wyvern-spear brands, took a deep breath, and played his other card. Emotional manipulation. "'Tis all supposition on yer part. What if by doin' this I end up goin' t'hell? Ye don't want that t'happen t'me, do ye?"

"Mm. Jack. I've seen your… list of crimes, against the Crown, and I'm fairly sure quite a few of them are also crimes against Heaven. Say, dressing up as a member of the clergy. Armed thievery. Even your association with the lowlifes of Tortuga has likely tainted your immortal soul. I'm sure that what you're doing now probably doesn't even come close to what you've already done, while you were alive."

"If I'm startin' now wi' a clean slate before evaluation…"

"Besides, I'd very gladly assume all responsibility. For corrupting an angel, perhaps." Norrington said playfully. He ran fingers over the ridge of one wing, murmuring, "I didn't think it was possible for you to get any more beautiful."

"Oh, no ye don't," Jack twisted up in Norrington's lap to glare at the other man, ignoring the compliment. "Don't ye be sayin' those things just like that. Responsibilities."

"So what do you want me to do, Jack?" The playfulness disappeared. Hands gripped his waist. "Forget you?" He bowed his head. "Jack. A… a long time ago. Remember we met, on the docks? With Elizabeth?"

"Aye." Jack said, wondering where this was going.

"And… I opened your compass."

"Ye said it didn't point north."

"No. It pointed at you."

"Oh." Jack blinked, speechless. "Um."

"I didn't really think about it then, up until I found out much later in Tortuga what the compass really did. When you handed it to Elizabeth. It was a rude shock." Norrington said quietly. "I didn't really want to believe it. Forced myself not to think about it. Then I came back to Port Royal, and…" A deep breath. "You probably know, then. What Beckett's been doing. To me."

"Aye." Jack's hand instinctively headed for Norrington's cheek, but he pulled it back. "I've seen. M'sorry."

"For what? You didn't cause it. Though now that I think of it, the rather unbelievable prank with mice in Beckett's drawer likely had a supernatural cause." Norrington looked up with a wry smile, his eyebrow arched. "I was wondering who could have dared to do that to Beckett."

"I did it," Jack admitted. "T'was th'first or second day o' me comin' back t'Earth. But I didn't think 'e'd take it out on ye."

"Hardly your fault, Jack. You couldn't have known," Norrington pulled Jack up against him, petting an arm. "So. I don't think I could have survived, the month or so of… of what he was doing. Without thinking. Of you."

"Eh?" Jack hated how his brain was refusing to come up with any sort of coherent reply to these revelations.

"So as… not to think about it too much. I'd wonder what it'd be like. To do that… things like that. To you. Not as a service, but out of, well." A harsh laugh. "I don't think it really helped my peace of mind very much in total, I guess. I think I could have been on the verge of breaking… then I found you stealing rum from my cupboard. And lately Beckett hasn't been calling on me, so… I guess I've been healing. Slowly. Up until I thought you left… that I'd scared you away."

"Ah." Jack knew Beckett had been too busy of late to advance any further plans about captaining said submersible ship, thanks to 'suggestions' from himself and, occasionally, and to Jack's surprise, Miyako. And the soiree should give them yet another breather. A deep sigh. "Yer makin' things really difficult."

"So. What do you suggest we do?" Norrington asked, mildly. "To make things easier for you."

"What I suggest _you_ do," Jack corrected, "Is t'enjoy th'soiree. Make some lady friends, mebbe think o' settlin' down."

Norrington's lip quirked. "I should have known you were somehow behind that. It seemed far too random for Governor Swann to have suddenly thought of it himself." Dryly. "So. You want me to enjoy myself at this gathering, and socialize with eligible women. What do I get in return?"

"Eh?" Jack waved his fingers vaguely in front of Norrington's face. "The possibility o' future happiness wi' little Norringtons?"

"I find it very odd how you continue to be convinced that I can only be happy if married, with children," Norrington said mildly. "Whatever gave you that idea? Proposing to Elizabeth? I assure you, when I did that, I wasn't thinking of the whole issue of 'settling down' and raising a family at all."

"Then what?"

"I was offering myself to an individual who I wanted and loved. No expectations attached." Norrington shrugged. "What would make me happy, Jack, is to have someone else. A partner who would… care for me." Quietly. "At this moment, the person I'm thinking of isn't exactly any of the women who recently arrived in Port Royal."

"I'm askin' ye t'give them a chance." Jack poked Norrington's nose, refusing to give in. "Keep yer options open, savvy."

"Jack. If you weren't… if you were alive. Would you have… have accepted." The pirate found the little stammer that sometimes crept into Norrington's voice when the man was wearing his heart on his sleeve so very endearing.

"M'findin' it very hard t'refuse, even now," Jack said gently, but firmly. "But I am. Refusin'."

"Just because you're… dead."

"Ye know, they have a word, fer likin'… dead," Jack said dryly. "An' if I recall, t'wasn't a nice word."

"I hardly think that applies in this context," Norrington replied severely. "What makes you different from the living? A difference in body temperature and the lack of a heartbeat?"

"Also immortality an' uh, other abilities," Jack pointed out.

"And do any, any of those… differences you've mentioned, change _who_ you are? Rather than _what_ you are?"

"Could be that'd change. Could be I'd become less… human. More angel."

"There're humans who easily change into becoming less human, while still being technically human." Norrington didn't look at the brand on his arm while he said this, but he didn't need to. "I'm willing to take that chance on you."

"Yer really single-minded, mate," Jack groused. "M'surprised ye gave up on 'Lizabeth so easy."

"It was hard," Norrington admitted. "But she didn't want me. It would not have been… human, to make her keep her word. I wanted her to be happy." He glanced over the cliff, for a moment, his smile wry. "What would make you happy, Jack?"

"T'be alive again, wi' me _Pearl_, out on th'sea," Jack said quietly. "But I'd settle fer ye bein' happy. Wi' somebody alive, who loves ye back. I'd rather ye gave that a chance."

Norrington brought up one nut-brown palm, and pressed his lips to the fingers. "You want me to let you go. Give you up."

"Aye."

"That'd make you happy."

"… aye."

"You know, for a pirate, you're remarkably bad at lying, sometimes." A sigh. "All right. I'd give the soiree a chance. A real chance. But I want something in return."

"What?" Jack asked suspiciously.

"I want you to think really hard on giving this – giving us a chance."

"M'not sure if that's really…"

"I rather think the Norrington who gave so much of a damn about what was right or wrong died, chasing you into a hurricane," Norrington snapped, intense green eyes holding Jack's startled dark ones. "Besides, I do recall that _you_ used to be in love with a ship."

Jack thought about this. Norrington wasn't asking him to give 'them' a chance, merely to think about it. And technically, he had, already, done so. And had already come to a conclusion. So… it wasn't really much of a consideration, from him. "Awlright."

"That includes not… disappearing. Once I let you go."

"Hold on, that wasn't in th'wordin'," Jack said quickly, fluttering his fingers and leaning back. "An' I have t'disappear, mate. I'm s'posed t'be dead, aye?"

"I mean when we're alone. Like this. I want to see you." Norrington stroked Jack's cheek. Warm fingers, exploring the edge of his moustache.

"I don't think ye'd really be up t'keepin' yer side o' th'bargain, wi' that sort o' stipulation, mate," Jack said dryly. "Wi' yer past track record in mind, an' all."

"Then we don't have an agreement."

"Mate, these terms are totally unrelated t'the original thing ye wanted back in return."

"They are now."

Jack glared at Norrington, who held his gaze evenly. Grumbling under his breath, Jack was the first to give. "Fine. Keep a cat."

"What? Why?"

"If ye want t'know when I'm about," Jack said irritably. "Cats can see angels. Don't ask me why. But don't ye be movin' th'family o' cats from th'fort, they like it there."

Norrington nodded slowly. "I see."

"Awlright. See ye later." Jack tried to rise, but found that he was still being held firmly against Norrington's frame. "Hey."

"We have some unfinished business," Norrington said mildly. A hand rubbed suggestively down Jack's side.

"There ain't goin' t'be any finishin' o' businesses," Jack growled, catching the wayward hand by the wrist. His body protested. "'Leastways not 'till after th'soiree."

"Not in the terms."

"They are now."

This time, Norrington gave, with obvious reluctance. "Fine." A pause, then more dryly, "I'd never have figured you for a matchmaker."

"Workin' wi' what I had, seemed like th'best way t'solve yer problems," Jack said defensively. He tried to get up again, but found himself still firmly locked in place. "Commodore…"

"James."

"Fine. _James_. Let go."

"Let me hold you. For a while." A soft breath of air over his scalp, that could have been 'please'.

Jack hesitated, then grudgingly relaxed. Watched fingers trace the spines of flight feathers, and thought about the abstract concept of voluntary damnation.

--

Port Royal became more colorful as the tide of nobility swamped it with necessary staff in assorted livery. Governor Swann had drawn up an impressive schedule for pre-soiree activities.

Through Governor Swann's insistence, Norrington was obliged to go for several of the social functions, which he did, with reluctance. The Governor, however, was very pleased (Miyako reported) that the Commodore actually seemed to be showing an interest in the lades – to the extent of actively engaging them in small talk. Jack convinced himself that he was definitely not jealous – and that the terms of their agreement were, indeed, of his making.

Miyako expanded her 'potentials' to include a Miss Betherst and a Miss Glace. She filled Jack in on their profiles with all the obsessive detail of a professional matchmaker, as they trailed behind the Lords and Ladies out on a foxhunt. Somewhere around when Miyako started speculating how the very sweet, if not conventionally thin Miss Betherst was more likely to be able to breastfeed children than the rail-thin, solemn Miss Glace, Jack decided he had better head off the conversation before he absorbed far too much unwanted detail.

"But who's yer favorite choice?" he asked, over the din of hounds straining at the leashes to get at the caged imported fox, held by a scarlet-coated whippers-in.

That got Miyako thinking for a while, allowing Jack to observe this rather brutal and skewed gentleman's sport. Most of the men wore elaborate scarlet jackets, with more dour, dusty-red ones worn by the huntsman and his assistants. The women wore less elaborate riding dresses, all sitting sidesaddle on sensible horses, save for Lady Katherine, distinctive in her tailored red coat and white skirt concession, straight-backed and proud next to her brother, her mare snorting and impatient for the run, ignoring the disapproving murmurs about her. Lord Beckett was also visible, marked out by the spirit of his stallion, watching those about him with disdain.

As far as Jack knew of the sport, they'd let the fox out, set the hounds after it, and then all the horses would try and ride it down, where the fox would likely be shot to pieces or torn up. He had been fairly surprised at Governor Swann's resourcefulness in locating requisite staff, sufficient horses, and the fox, as well as finding sufficient space to hold a hunt. They were somewhere in the countryside behind Kingston, rather than in Port Royal. The hunt would be followed by lunch at the Governor of Kingston's residence, then a leisurely cruise back to Port Royal.

The Governor of Kingston – one Governor Horner, seemed to be old friends with Weatherby Swann – they rode sedately on geldings to a side, sporting their massive periwigs and discussing regional politics. Norrington rode beside them, clearly not very comfortable on a horse, and pointedly wearing his Naval dress uniform, despite the heat. Not hunting then, the Commodore.

Occasionally, Jack caught Norrington looking around, especially at empty spaces, as if looking for something no one else could see. He smirked. Likely, the Commodore was wishing for a pack of cats rather than hounds.

"And so I think the best choice is still Miss Hatherway," Miyako concluded. Jack nodded hastily, before she realized that he hadn't been listening. "You know, Jack, I'm really glad you came along, after all. I haven't had this much fun in decades."

"Glad t'oblige, luv," Jack said dryly.

"Who's your favorite choice?" Miyako asked curiously.

Jack had, as Miyako had suggested, split up to check out the ladies. Several of the latecomers had been other eligible bachelors, however, also here to scope out a match – which could be a problem. Or perhaps not. It was hard to tell. "I'm thinkin' Lady Savony. Pretty. Uncle in th'Navy out in th'Indies. Lots o' Naval family history. Sense o' humor."

"She squints," Miyako said disapprovingly. "And her voice is a little shrill. Like chicken."

"Now, luv, I don't disparage yer choices an' ye don't disparage mine," Jack said mildly. "Yer Miss Hatherway isn't really in th'realm o' slim an' gorgeous either."

"And Norrington hasn't been looking at your Lady Savony," Miyako said triumphantly. "But he has been talking with Miss Hatherway. I saw them. Besides, it's just a little baby fat. It'd disappear."

Jack had also seen Norrington speak to various women, including the charming, if a little plump Miss Hatherway, but he managed to grin. "Me bet's on Lady Savony."

"Fine. I bet Miss Hatherway. What are the stakes?"

"Loser takes over winner's duties for a month, winner gets a brief vacation back in Heaven," Jack decided. He had some questions he wanted to ask Barachiel, anyway.

"Done. You're going to regret this," Miyako said gleefully.

"No cheatin'."

"Of course." Miyako nodded impatiently.

The fox was loose, soon a russet blur over the grass. Then the hounds, after it was deemed that it had a sufficient head start, and the hunters who wished to give chase. Jack lingered hesitantly next to Norrington, who didn't seem interested, but Miyako tugged at his arm. "Come on!"

Grumbling, they took to the air, following the tide of bloodthirsty nobility. Soon, however, it was very obvious that there were only three real contenders for the chase – Lord Beckett, Lady Katherine and the Earl of Southsend, with effortless jumps and skilful navigation of obstacles.

"I'm beginnin' t'feel sorry for it," Jack muttered, watching the fox dart over streams and slip into undergrowth.

"Don't be silly," Miyako said, though she added thoughtfully, "Though I'd like to see who gets the kill."

"Ye really want t'see it getting torn into little bits?" Jack asked.

"Not really…"

"An' don't ye want t'see if Norrington starts chattin' up any o' our choices?"

Miyako pouted. Outside of verbal mannerisms, she had been picking up physical ones, as well. "Well…" She paused. "What about I follow them, and you go back to observe your charge?"

"Sure," Jack agreed, not really interested in the hunt, but in a pretty Commodore whose average ability at riding was quite adorably obvious.

Unfortunately, nothing very interesting happened – the Commodore was introduced to several newcomers – social elite of Kingston, it seemed, and he spoke with several of them – politely, but with no real inflexion other than basic sociability. He eventually began discussing Naval policy, with obvious relief, with Lady Savony's cousin – a Lieutenant, stationed somewhere Jack didn't catch, here to escort her as well as carry out some administrative detail or other in Kingston – and a few merchant-princes. The women, bored that the two most good looking men in the group were occupied (one hunting, one chatting about Men's Business), began chattering amongst themselves.

Jack pouted. With the handsome young Earl removed from the area, it should have been far easier for Norrington to start upholding his end of the bargain.

Eventually, Miyako returned, excited and chatty. "Lady Katherine got the kill," she said happily. "A clean shot from horseback, quite a distance, too."

The riders in question came streaming back, finally followed by controlled hounds, and a whipper-in holding a limp red carcass. Lady Katherine was flushed with triumph, her brother no less proud alongside her. Lord Beckett seemed more amused than disappointed – a true horseman, he had likely derived far more enjoyment from the wild steeplechase rather than the actual issue of the kill.

More murmurs from the crowd as the news spread. Many were quick to (cautiously) congratulate the Earl on having such a talented sister. Norrington, however, was the first to offer congratulations to Lady Katherine, for her skill with both rifle and riding. As Jack and Miyako watched, one perfect feminine eyebrow arched slightly, and she smiled, prettily modest in her reply.

"Can I change my bet?" Miyako asked.

"No." Jack frowned, wondering if Norrington knew what he was getting himself into. Did Commodores always _have _to attract trouble?


	7. Negotiations

Author's Note: Increasingly at a loss as to how to finish.

Chapter 7

Negotiations

Somewhere around the business of getting changed and prepared for a society lunch, the Earl of Southsend and his sister, with practiced skill, somehow cut Norrington out from the colorful herd of social elite and into a private drawing room, in the Governor of Kingston's sprawling villa. Jack had gotten separated from Miyako when the latter had gotten distracted via the amusement value of older women approaching the admittedly single Governor Swann. He followed Norrington, a little suspiciously.

The Earl now wore a smoky-gray vest, embroidered with silver patterns elaborately influenced by basic Celtic knot designs, white shirt sporting gleaming gold buttons carved with his family crest – a dancing unicorn. Lady Katherine was dressed in a pale blue confection of lace, emeralds and pearls, a diamond choker around her neck, her hair elaborately coiffed. Norrington wore the less formal version of his dress uniform, and he arched an eyebrow as the Earl closed the door behind them.

"You wished a word with me, Lord Tembury-Lysander?" he asked politely.

"Yes. But first, before I speak frankly, my sister and I would like your word that nothing spoken within this room is to leave it," the Earl said, with a wave towards the plush chairs. Norrington took the armchair near the decorative fireplace, while the Earl and his sister sat together at a wide divan. Jack settled himself against the fireplace to listen.

"I cannot give that if…"

"If, of course, it somehow impugns your sense of honor, then of course it would be up to you," the Earl agreed. Norrington nodded, cautiously satisfied.

"You see, Commodore, my brother and I have a dilemma," Lady Katherine spoke, with a quick smile. "It concerns Lord Beckett."

Norrington stiffened very slightly – the full red lips curved a little more, and the Earl dipped his head a little. "At the beginning, we opposed the entry of Lord Beckett into the commercial scene in Jamaica," the Earl said. "Arguing that there was no real need for him to be here. However, I am sad to say, we were outmaneuvered, and he has set up a rival point of influence here, a little too close to Montserrat. And given his confidence of late in expanding his sphere of power, my sister and I suspect that he has some sort of new trump card, up his sleeve. Are we correct in this?"

Both twins observed Norrington closely, but the Commodore kept silent. Lady Katherine chuckled softly, continuing their observations. "Now, this sphere of power is beginning to overlap dangerously with our own hold on Montserrat and, in that sense, Jamaica. So naturally Victor and I jumped at the chance to visit Port Royal through Governor Swann, and scope things out."

"At the same time, especially since it's been a few years since my inheritance, social obligations on both myself and my sister have increased several fold." The Earl patted his sister's hand, almost absently.

"How does this involve me?" Norrington asked bluntly.

"Through some… discussions, with Lord Beckett, and observing the both of you when in the same area, we concluded that he likely has some sort of… influence, over you, Commodore. Are we correct?" Lady Katherine arched an eyebrow.

Norrington hesitated, then nodded tightly.

"And it is not to your liking?"

Another nod.

"And you see a further aspect of our dilemma, Commodore. We have enough problems with Lord Beckett's newfound aggression without him having the obvious backing of the Commodore of Jamaica," the Earl said smoothly. "We won't ask you to outline exactly what the nature of this influence is, but we'd tell you our views, and you can choose whether or not to confirm our suspicions."

"Firstly, we know that you, possibly due to a lapse in judgment regarding your previous warship the _Dauntless_, resigned your commission in Port Royal and disappeared for a few months." The Earl counted off his fingers.

A nod.

"Secondly, Lord Beckett acquired a warrant for your arrest, via pulling a few strings over in London. You disappeared, then came back a while later. Somehow, he rescinded the rather oddly worded warrant, and now his influence over you is based on the threat of somehow managing to recall your pardon. Ruin you, perhaps, with accusations of previous crimes against the Crown that were not covered by the terms of the pardon. Or perhaps find some inconsistency with the validity of the pardon itself." Lady Katherine said, in the same crisp tone as her brother. "And Governor Swann is too distracted to come to your aid, because his daughter and her fiancé have been sent off on what seems like a wild goose chase over the high seas."

A twitch in the jaw, then a nod.

"Now, my sister and I are of the firm opinion that control over you – and hence the Navy in Jamaica – was likely one of the main reasons why Lord Beckett acquired the warrant and headed to Port Royal in the first place. However, it doesn't appear to fit his character – it shouldn't by itself give him the confidence to challenge our power," the Earl smiled. "So, that's where you come in. We have a gap in information, Commodore. You must have traded something, for your pardon. What is it?"

Norrington sighed, and looked out of the window, then back at the twins, with a wry smile. "You're not going to believe me."

"Try us, Commodore," Lady Katherine said with a playful smile.

"What do you know of Davy Jones?" Norrington drawled.

The Earl blinked. "Hm. Captain of the mythical _Flying Dutchman_, the terror of ships over at the Cape at the southern end of the Dark Continent."

"It's not very mythical," Norrington said flatly, daring them to disbelieve him. In the same tone, he described, briefly, what had occurred since he had entered Jack's crew. When he finished, both twins pursed their lips, eerily simultaneously. Jack was impressed – Norrington had managed to relate the events with a clinical accuracy, giving himself no excuse for what he had essentially did – stolen the one thing that could have saved the lives of Elizabeth and William.

"We'd be more disinclined to disbelieve you if not for the fact that I had a brief… relationship, with one of your men who was with you on the Isla de la Muerta, when he visited Montserrat," Lady Katherine smiled. "Terrible nightmares, he had, a little disruptive to sleeping."

Norrington colored slightly, obviously not wanting to know any scandalous detail about the private lives of his marines. Jack grinned. The Commodore may be aggressive in the bedchamber, but he was still _so_ proper.

"So. This 'heart', is in the possession of Lord Beckett," the Earl mused. "Well. Not a problem. I'm sure we can somehow acquire it. Do you know where he keeps it?"

"In the middle drawer of his desk in Port Royal," Norrington said, "But he has a guard."

"The estimable Mister Mercer." The Earl smirked. "Don't worry about the detail, Commodore. But Mister Mercer isn't the only capable assassin in the world. For example, why do you think my sister and I aren't afraid of being overheard, in this room?"

"I see," Norrington commented dryly. "I suppose then I'm to believe that what you want from me is information, and my agreement no longer to aid Lord Beckett if you somehow resolve his hold on me?"

"Naturally," the Earl nodded. "But how do you propose we get about doing so?"

"Influence in London?" Norrington suggested vaguely.

"Definitely possible," Lady Katherine agreed, "And again, you shouldn't really know the details – better for all and sundry. But we also want something else from you, Commodore."

"So I'd be exchanging one form of control for another," Norrington observed, a little coldly.

"Perhaps a better form," the Earl pointed out. "For example, my sister and I heard some rather alarming rumors, perhaps unfounded, of Lord Beckett's tendency towards sexual sadism."

Norrington flinched, but didn't nod.

"We could assure you that wouldn't be the case with us, Commodore, but it'd only be words," Lady Katherine patted her brother's knee. "We have a better proposal."

"Why go to so much trouble over me?" Norrington asked suspiciously. "Certainly if you employ… assassins of the caliber of Mister Mercer, you could just have me removed, and that would end the issue of Beckett's Naval support."

"In chess, Commodore," the Earl said dryly, "One doesn't always see pawns as pieces to be sacrificed. They can also be… developed. Of course, removing you from the board would be the easiest way out, and I won't lie to you by saying that my sister and I didn't consider it at length."

"What we're thinking is that you are quite possibly in line to be an Admiral, perhaps within the next decade," Lady Katherine observed mildly. "It'd probably even be a safe investment. And an Admiral would be a remarkable ally indeed."

"And more power that is vulnerable to abuse," Norrington said sharply. "I won't subjugate Naval interests to the East India Company."

"Oh? And Lord Beckett had no intention of asking you to do so, in the future? He is pushing for you to become Admiral, you know," the Earl said blandly. When Norrington's blanched, he added, "I do believe so. No, Commodore, we wouldn't be asking you to do that, of course. Sometimes the potential of something occurring is far more useful than the reality of it doing so. Of course, a little minor aiding of non-conflicting interests would be useful, as well."

"What you are both offering is very attractive," Norrington admitted slowly, "But it remains that I have no real guarantee of your good intentions. On the other hand, Lord Beckett has made it clear what his… intentions… are."

"The known evil over possibly unknown good?" Lady Katherine arched an eyebrow. "Not a gambler, Commodore?"

"No," Norrington said coolly. Jack wondered if it was as clear to him as it was to the twins that Norrington was lying. The proposal was very, very attractive, even without apparent consideration or reassurance.

To his puzzlement, the twins smiled, but didn't call the Commodore's bluff. "What if we provide sufficient guarantee, Commodore?" the Earl asked.

"That remains to be seen," Norrington replied carefully. More dryly, "I do hope you aren't proposing to bribe me."

"Nothing so crass," Lady Katherine smirked. "Commodore Norrington. How would you feel about being married to the sister of the Earl of Southsend?"

Jack blinked. Norrington's eyes widened. "What? I mean… that's your guarantee?" Disbelief.

"We are very familiar, Commodore, with the legal power our society gives to a husband over his wife," the Earl said mildly.

"You could beat me with a… what was it, Victor?"

"I do believe social convention terms it a stick as thick as his arm. Or as long, I don't recall," the Earl noted casually, as if making remarks on the pedigree of his steed.

"Probably both," Lady Katherine decided, "So, a husband could beat his wife, and it would be discipline; he could take her by force, and it would be love. What is hers is his, and he dictates what she can do with her life. That is absolute power, Commodore, of the most fundamental sort, because it is legal, and it is based merely because the one with power is different physically than the other." Coldly. "Our mother was the second wife of the now-deceased previous Earl of Southsend. She will never walk again without a marked limp, she is blind in one eye and deaf in an ear. So you can see, Commodore, we have given this issue much thought, out of necessity."

"I would _never_ do that," Norrington growled hotly.

The Earl smiled faintly. "And we believe you, Commodore, or we will not be making you this offer. It is a very unusual man, who would allow a lady of status to manipulate him into risking his career, yet find it within himself to forgive her and bless her ultimate choice. You have the rare quality of honor, a sense of justice, and, also importantly, you are placed in a position that could benefit us in terms of power."

"What makes you believe that I will agree to this… marriage of convenience? As a guarantee?" Norrington still sounded adorably scandalized at the very idea.

"Because we have observed you over the past few days – and, of course, done some prior research. You appear to be single, and available, yet you have not shown the least bit of _real _interest so far in any of the beauties that have descended upon Port Royal, and you occasionally have this… air of thoughtful abstraction. Smiling at nothing," Lady Katherine said playfully. "Of course, it could be mere supposition on our part, but we believe that you've probably already given your heart away. Perhaps to someone scandalously inappropriate. Far below your station, perhaps, or already taken, or… just inappropriate," she finished, delicately. _Not a woman_.

Norrington flushed. Jack rolled his eyes. Not a good liar either, the Commodore.

"On the other hand, I have no intention to be shackled to conventional matrimony," Lady Katherine added archly, "As it could turn out to be quite… boring. We suggest a marriage with enough grandeur to satisfy the social sharks, and then I'd go back with my brother to Montserrat. You'd have to visit, naturally, every so often, or I'd come to Port Royal, whichever suits us best. We can even exchange suitably flowery letters and gifts. You'll have your little affairs, and I'll have mine. Discreetly. We'll handle the problem of Lord Beckett, and you'll work on perhaps considering any little favors we may ask, at your discretion. But the marriage itself would be a sufficiently powerful symbol, legally and socially, to make those favors few and far between."

"You have to pardon me if it still sounds far too… outlandish," Norrington said slowly.

"The thing is, Commodore, I have been infatuated many times in my life, but there are very few men whom I have actually liked. As a person. As a friend," Lady Katherine said earnestly. "And you are one. Victor shares my view. My mother married for love, Commodore. I think I'd like to try marrying out of… friendship, for lack of a better word."

"You don't have to give us your agreement now, of course," the Earl added, "But it'd be easier if you do, and we can get around to… putting it in motion. Making it believable."

"Believable," Norrington repeated, with a frown.

"If I _have_ to be married," Lady Katherine grinned, "I insist on the whole complicated affair of being properly and publicly chased. Seeking out my company over others, asking me for dances, showing me to the sights of Port Royal… oh, perhaps even a few tongue-tied stammers in my company. Meaningful glances over crowded rooms. An air of distraction when I leave, maybe some adorably half-cobbled excuses to come to Montserrat. On my part, I fully intend to enjoy pining, with sufficient melodrama, after handsome British officers. And Victor can play the part of the delighted, confused and protective brother."

"With great pleasure," the Earl matched the impish grin.

"What if someday you… or I meet… somebody who…"

"Who we really fall head over heels for and want to marry?" Lady Katherine tapped her lip. "I trust your honor, Commodore, given that incident with Miss Swann. And it would only be courtesy to extend the same right to you."

"Children?" Norrington asked, a little stiffly.

Lady Katherine shrugged. "There'd have to be some issue, I'm afraid, since Victor has decided not to marry, and there's that very pesky question of estates reverting to the Crown or to undeserving male relatives. A wife would be too troublesome, we've thought – and the relative scandal of an unmarried skirt-chaser is far smaller than a flirting spinster. The names accrued to the former are far less derogatory, for example." A grin. "But I'd admit that I find you _very_ handsome, and getting inebriated solves many problems. In any case, we have at least a decade to think _that_ problem over, and the little details."

"I'd need to think about it," Norrington said finally.

The Earl nodded, and rose, supporting his sister. "If you agree, Commodore, you merely have to set our proposed little act in play. We will await your decision with bated breath." Dry. "In the meantime, I think we're probably being sorely missed. See you at lunch."

--

Norrington waited till they had gone, then walked over to the window, bowing his head. Very quietly, he murmured, "Jack?"

Jack hesitated, then willed himself to be visible, perching on the arm of the chair that Norrington had just vacated. "Aye."

"What do you think?"

"It's yer choice, mate," Jack said carefully.

"Didn't you want me to marry for love?" Norrington asked, dryly.

"It shouldn'a be me choice, what ye choose," Jack shrugged. "I wanted ye t'marry fer happiness. I s'pose that don't have t'include love. Though, m'sure that Lady Katherine be easy to love, if ye was o' th'inclination."

"It seems so… cold," Norrington continued looking out of the window. "A transaction with the use of a sacred union."

"Ye'd be surprised how many sacred unions are really transactions," Jack commented, "How many o' th'women here under this roof think they'd really be marryin' fer love? Bet their fathers be usin' them as tokens. Buyin' an' sellin', that's how it be, fer th'nobs. D'ye like her, though?"

"It's difficult not to," Norrington said dryly. "Before I met you, she'd probably be considered 'my type'."

Jack chuckled, glad that the sound didn't seem hollow. "Think ye'd be happy, wi' her?"

"It does seem to solve all my problems." More softly. "And I can still have you."

"Yer not s'posed t'be factorin' that into yer considerations," Jack pointed out, refusing to feel flattered, or gratified, in any way. "Since m'not sure how long I'll still be here."

"That's also difficult not to," Norrington commented wryly. He turned on his heel, and walked over to Jack. Placed a hand on the fabric next to Jack, and bent down to press a gentle kiss on the pirate's forehead.

"If ye have t'ask me, I don't like it," Jack said quietly. "Ye still won't be free. One form o' control, fer another."

"Neither will she," Norrington pointed out mildly.

"Aye, well, m'sure that if ye ever did, as much as it be inconceivable, raise yer hand against her, she be havin' some Mister Mercer-types pop out o' the woodwork," Jack noted dryly. "Yer death certificate could be anythin' from 'Fell on his own knife' to 'Accidentally rolled down th'stairs, several times' to 'Stumbled and defenestrated'. T'aint real power that ye have in return."

"But they do seem to be a better option than remaining with… Lord Beckett," Norrington said, with distaste.

"Ye'd be better off checkin' them out first, p'haps. Ask 'bout them wi' Governor Swann. Maybe they just be appearin'… civilized."

"It's not only the question of power, it's also the… freedom to conduct my life here in Port Royal without the pressing societal pressure to get married," Norrington added, stroking knuckles gently over Jack's cheek. _And I can still have you._

"An' ye better be real discreet 'bout yer 'affairs', then," Jack said dryly, catching the hand.

Norrington chuckled, turning his wrist upwards, pressing a kiss on the back of Jack's palm. "Don't like her?"

"Don't like _them_," Jack corrected.

"Because of the supposedly skewed offer, or because I'm seriously considering it?" Norrington grinned.

"'Cos ye deserve better," Jack muttered, annoyed that the other man still didn't seem to be approaching the issue with any real degree of seriousness or rationality.

"Personally I think you're just… jealous," Norrington smirked.

Jack stared at him, open-mouthed, then prodded him in the dress coat, feeling abruptly irritable. "_Not_ true."

"Then tell me why you don't like them," Norrington said mildly.

"They're presentin' an act t'the world every moment o' their life," Jack countered, "An' that don't make me inclined t'believe anythin' they say."

"A necessary act," Norrington said absently. "Given society's restraints on women. A way for them to share power in a rank that can only accrue to the male twin. She'd have expected, otherwise, normally, to be married off to cement ties." Mildly. "Besides. I like them. And, you're not particularly well placed to criticize the dishonesty of others. Being, well, a pirate. Previously."

"Then why'd ye be askin' old Jack fer his opinion, if yer mind's made up?" Jack picked at one heavily starched sleeve.

"I was wondering if you'd have any… insight. From…" Norrington vaguely gestured in the air.

"From bein' all-present?" Jack asked dryly. "Be tellin' ye, mate, I ain't all-knowin'. Yer choice, mate. Sounds a little too good t'be true, that all yer problems can be solved just like this, but… they don't seem t'be playin' any outside game." Mildly. "Think they checked out Beckett first, though, fer an eligible bachelor, an' dismissed him as a possibility. Yer probably their second choice, fer all their flowery praise."

"Mm. I thought so."

"Commodore?" Someone rapped at the door. "Are you in there? Lunch is soon to be served."

Norrington brushed lips over Jack's, in an elegant, chaste kiss, and headed for the door.

--

At lunch, Governor Swann seemed gratified – if a little surprised – to realize that the Commodore, seated opposite Lady Katherine, seemed to shower her with an inordinate amount of attention, occasionally stumbling over his words as he asked her earnest questions about how she had acquired her skill with the gun and her life in Montserrat. To the greater surprise of all and sundry, Lady Katherine herself appeared to respond with a sort of blushing, shy delight, even giggling girlishly at some points. The Earl seemed bemused to the point of ignoring the ever-present female attention he accrued, though he occasionally shot Norrington several thoughtful looks over his pheasant. Beckett was frowning, obviously aware of the ramifications of a Norrington-Katherine romance.

Miyako prodded Jack in the side, around when roast boar was introduced to the table. "What happened in the room?"

"We both lost our bets," Jack said wryly, and describes what had happened. Miyako arched an eyebrow, as she took in the conversation, then glanced over at Lady Katherine, who was giggling far more than propriety demanded at a dry joke from Norrington.

"Wouldn't have expected that from him," Miyako pouted, obviously disappointed that Norrington wasn't about to enter a whirlwind romance with any of the pretty, eligible women. "But…" A sigh. "I suppose it really is the best opportunity available. And it's what we wanted, I guess. Protection."

"Ye don't sound convinced," Jack observed.

Miyako lowered her head and smiled faintly. "I suppose I was sort of… hoping to be able to, well, encourage some sort of fairytale romance. Since it wasn't available to me in life and, well, of the three charges I've had none of them married for love. Though I suppose in Weatherby's case it came about soon enough." Dryly. "Perhaps it's the dramatist in me that seems to have been kicked awake by your influence."

Jack decided, wisely, not to mention anything about his current 'relationship' with Norrington. As fairytales went, it probably was something around the lines of tragic-humor.

"What do you think of her though?"

"Doesn't matter does it?" Jack said mildly. "Ye said not t'interfere."

"She's very lucky, though," Miyako said, a little enviously. "Very few women can boast of having any real power, I should think. Not to this extent."

"Any woman he chooses would be lucky," Jack said absently, before realizing what he said. Watched Norrington continue to – as much as it was an act where the main participants were enjoying themselves a little too much – pay court to Lady Katherine, and felt a cold pit in his stomach. Wanted the attention. Had the attention, actually, but managed to both want it and not want it (logic not being a strong point, and close attention to ethics being a new and unwelcome preoccupation).

"But it's a good thing, isn't it? Maybe after this you'd be recalled to Heaven. If it gets pulled off," Miyako said, peering suspiciously over Beckett's shoulder at the next dish – some sort of unidentified, heavily garnished meat. "You'd have effectively solved all his problems and given him security for the rest of his life."

"Ye helped too," Jack pointed out, and tried not to think about that. Leaving. Whatever his private Heaven entailed, he wasn't sure that, without the _Pearl_, it could be any better than being encircled by warmth and wanted so badly that it eroded all defence and logic, no matter how carefully constructed.

"It wasn't entirely charitable," Miyako admitted, pointing at Governor Swann, who seemed hale and hearty. "He's stopped moping after his daughter all the time. I guess having someone else to help healed him. Still. Not much of a fairytale. I'm quite disappointed."

"The soiree ain't even over yet, luv," Jack remarked. "P'haps ye'd be surprised yet."

Miyako smiled wryly. "I really doubt it. So. Is this our happy ending?"

Jack didn't trust himself to answer.


	8. Ledger of Lives

Author's note: Slower updates for a bit. RL. Sorry, had to write smex – was beginning to get bored of my own story. Lol!

Chapter 8

Ledger of lives

The first thing the large mackerel-striped gray tomcat in Norrington's bedchambers did was to hiss at Jack, baring sharp white teeth.

It sat on the table, ears flattened, fur fluffed in outrage and challenge. There was a collar barely visible under the smoky fur – black leather, with a tiny silver pendant with an Admiral's rank insignia. Norrington chuckled as he hung coat on the rack and removed wig and cravat, following its gaze to the apparently empty spot. "Jack. This is Admiral – the ship's cat of the _H.M.S_ _Mandate_, new to Port Royal following the need for continued British Naval superiority." Amused. "As you can tell, he doesn't much like pirates. The _Mandate_'s crew loves to tell lurid and possibly exaggerated stories about his vicious attacks on boarders."

"How'd ye get th'ship's cat off th'ship?" Jack willed himself to be visible, and cautiously stretched out a hand. Which was hastily snatched back, as a paw, claws extended, swiped through the air, the cat snarling in warning. "An' how th'hell does he know I'm a pirate?"

"First question – milk. The second… well, you _are_ wearing rather outlandish gear." Norrington arched an eyebrow, with a smirk, patting the cat until it seemed to calm down – though it hissed again when Jack attempted to sidle closer, glaring at the pirate with murderous yellow eyes.

"Ye know, usually yer kind is crazy 'bout angels," Jack shook a finger at the cat, which sniffed irritably, and began to wash a paw in disdain.

Norrington smirked, reaching forward and pulling Jack up against him, nuzzling an ear, purring, "I'm sure I'm crazy enough about you for the both of us."

Jack rolled his eyes, even as he curled fingers into the soft fabric of the other man's white shirt. "Worse than a penny dreadful, mate."

The Commodore chuckled, but it was James who gently tilted Jack's chin up and pressed their lips together, gently, inviting exploration. Jack flicked a tongue curiously at soft lips, then remembered himself and pressed his own shut, unresponsive, even when Norrington lapped at then nipped his lower lip. Waited until the other man pulled away, then arched an eyebrow. "Terms, mate." Jack was glad his voice was steady.

"Fuck the terms, Jack," Norrington growled, "I just spent a day having to pretend that I was infatuated with another person. Do you realize how _hard _that was?"

This time, Jack opened his mouth for the questing tongue, though he forced himself not to respond. Self-control from ten years of single-minded patience – he pressed nails into his palm. Half-lidded eyes noticed the ignored cat slipping out from the balcony, probably headed towards the kitchen to try its luck at scraps. A warm hand at the nape of his neck, the other raking through the base of the wings at his back, evoking a shiver. Eventually, Norrington pulled back again, green eyes stormy with frustration at the impassiveness, and need – a wounded, gasped sound, and Jack found himself shoved up against the wall, sandwiching new muscles uncomfortably, tongue back in his throat, a palm slapped into the space beside his head.

Kohl-rimmed eyes looked up into green ones with mute reproach when Norrington pulled back. Jack pressed four fingers against wet lips. Another inarticulate sound of frustration, and Norrington wheeled away to stand at his desk, fingers in a white-knuckled grip over the edge of the chair, back facing Jack. Shuddering, sobbing breaths. Jack slumped a little more against the wall, and closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

Repression – it had to be the Naval repression thing. Certainly Norrington had managed to fool Jack about the apparent… difficulty in playacting with Lady Katherine – all three sides appeared to have been having the time of their lives aboard the luxury ship on their way back to Kingston, and even the dinner afterwards. Joking, chatting. It had been difficult to watch, even with Beckett's darkening expression on the side to keep himself entertained (Miyako had been gloating over that), and Jack had eventually excused himself to go check on the fort cats.

A few hours playing with the kittens and the mother cat in the stables had restored his good humor somewhat. Allowed him to look at his jealousy and laugh at how irrational it was. Norrington had, after all, chosen this option to a large part because it allowed him to have Jack, at the same time. Irrational. Nothing to do with insecurity at all. The real problem was (he told James the kitten) was that all his life he had been grounded to… items. Things to give him focus to his wild obsession with freedom. Not people. Things he could keep close to himself – to possess against the rest of the world. Things that he didn't have to, well, really consider, regarding their future happiness, only really about their maintenance. Mundane issues. Tricorn hat, compass, pistol, _Black Pearl_. Rum, to some extent. They defined 'Captain Jack Sparrow', grounded him next to 'Jack'.

He'd never been grounded to… a person. And now he couldn't seem to handle it, swinging between casual possession and an inclination to over-think about the future.

Hell, the point was pretty much driven in with what he had appeared in when he'd been on that cloudy bit of real estate before the Pearly Gates. Tricorn hat, compass, pistol. No _Pearl_, but that was a little more complicated. Frustratingly, however, he knew that hat, compass, pistol couldn't be… real. Likely, if he tried shooting anybody with the pistol, the bullets would turn into… oh, bright pink butterflies. Something suitably angelic. The real hat, compass, pistol, were likely being digested in the belly of a monstrous beastie. Those he had now were in their purest form – simply external props for his sanity. Materialized, in his concept of 'Jack' – or rather, 'Captain Jack Sparrow'.

He'd wondered out aloud, to a squirming, impatient kitten, if that was why angels wore white robes. When they'd slowly lost conception of what it was to be, say, 'Miyako-the-human', to simply 'Miyako-angel' – a human-shaped duty, sometimes enforced by a symbol (a white rose, for example, with endlessly shedding petals). Someday, perhaps, the dreadlocks would disappear, his hair would be straight and neat, the kohl would be wiped away and the brightly colored clothes and trappings would fade into a white homespun robe.

Jack's conviction of that question had, however, been eroding as he'd observed Miyako herself over the past few days. She still had the capacity to care – did so, in fact, for Governor Swann. Still had curiosity, the ability to sympathize, a willingness to work around the rules. All the 'human' emotions. Being an angel, it seemed, didn't destroy these – perhaps it only suppressed it, when one was isolated, or attempting to lose oneself in the infinite, or whatever it was angels was supposed to do. Jack hadn't been informed of it, and he really had no idea or inclination as to how to start.

Again, he'd found himself having to reexamine previously held conclusions about Heaven's motives. Perhaps he really was here as an apology (as much as that would hurt his pride), and everybody Higher Up was pretty mystified as to why he hadn't actually jumped Norrington's bones to relieve some of that… mouthwatering sexual tension. Ahem. Yes. As much as he was really tempted to test that theory (all in the name of research, really, since he wasn't getting much in the way of divine feedback)… there were consequences, weren't there? Seemed important, at the time – he just couldn't recall them right now, in the backdrop of Norrington's pained attempts to get himself back under control. And especially since Norrington had already pointedly taken a path that would allow Jack to be with him, and still have the necessary protection from Beckett – it seemed quite extraneous now, to continue to refuse him.

Didn't it?

"Sorry," Norrington finally muttered. Wardrobe door, steps, room door, fading steps. Jack tapped his fingers against the wall, lowered his head, and let out another breath. Pushed himself away, stretched out developing kinks in the wings. The balcony looked inviting.

Jack, however, climbed up onto Norrington's desk, took out a fresh sheet of paper adorned with the crest of the Royal Navy, opened the inkbottle, dipped the quill into it and began doodling. Formless squiggles and deformed kitten shapes. A very, very bad sketch of his _Pearl_, and the paper was done for. Jack was in the midst of inflicting a drawing of the design of a Jolly Roger on the next unsuspecting piece of paper when the door opened. Footsteps, a wry chuckle. Warm arms around him and a chin on his shoulder – the smell of hot water, soap.

Third piece of paper – a sketch of the sparrow tattoo on his arm, a terrible picture of Anamaria. The Jack-monkey. A pistol. Elizabeth, in boy's clothes, holding stick-fingered hands with William in his feather hat.

Fourth piece. Jack wrote,

'_When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat._

_Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;_

_Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay._

_Tomorrow 's falser than the former day_'

A whisper against his ear. "Dryden." A warm tongue, brief against the shell. " 'Fool, not to know that love endures no tie'."

Jack wrote,

'_Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? _

_Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: _

_Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, _

_Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?_'

A chuckle. "Easy. The Bard." Dreadlocks were parted, a kiss pressed into his neck, then, dryly, " 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day'?"

Jack snorted. "Don't ye dare, mate. Predictable."

Fingers took the quill away from him, placing it on the table, and he was turned, gently, to face the other man. "You're an educated man."

"Could be," Jack smirked. Removed his hat, and put it on wet brown hair, then sea-urchin spine, belts. Shrugged off the coat, (convenient wings, that somehow managed to superimpose coat, muscle and feathers at the base – a feat of reality) and the vest, pulled off weathered leather boots, dumping those cavalierly on the ground. Norrington watched silently, his hands on Jack's thighs, kneading. Shirt followed the boots. Jack pulled one knee up onto the desk, displacing a warm hand, callused foot against the other joint, leaned back, rested one elbow on the leg, and beckoned with four fingers. Smirked again. Watched green eyes begin to smolder.

Norrington leaned close. Pressed his nose to Jack's. Whispered, "I won't stop now, even if you tell me to."

"Aye."

-cut to keep with rating. Uncut fic at sparrington-igotfree-com-

Evening breaths, then, wryly, "Broken every rule in the book yet?"

"Probably still a few I haven't gotten around t'breakin', but m'workin' on it. Haven't been struck by lightnin' or summat yet, though." Jack was feeling dazed. Not just from the sex. He wasn't sure, right at this point, exactly what had made him give up his conviction. Green eyes so dark with pain, perhaps. Harsh breathing, and bowed shoulders. It'd have needed someone with far less heart than Jack to continue to refuse such desperation.

"I'm surprised though. Terms."

"Aye, well. S'pose they were only really guidelines," The pirate drawled. "'Sides, ye started it."

Playful, if obviously weary. "Was it the poetry?"

"_Hell_ no."

"Pity. That'd have been easy."

"Just bloody sleep."

"Mm." Fingers stroking through soft feathers at the base. "Do you? Sleep, I mean."

"Don't need to."

A yawn, chest expanding against his. "Would you be sore tomorrow?"

"D'ye normally talk so much afterwards?"

Sleepy, sated grins against Jack's throat. A murmur, "I'm just curious."

"Ye can be curious in th'morning, mate."

A frown, then a tightening grip. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"What makes ye think that?"

"The sudden preoccupation with me sleeping."

Jack recalled Miyako's comment. "Suspicious sort." Snidely. "Yer getting wrinkles." A finger rubbed over Norrington's forehead. "It's all that skepticism ye hold within ye, mate."

Another mumble, and Norrington lost the battle for consciousness. Jack twisted over to his front, and leaned his cheek against a palm. Folded a wing over the warm body that was just beginning to snore, and idly wondered how much trouble he was in right now.

--

Norrington was summoned to Beckett's office. He stood at ease, near the desk, while Beckett paced in a tight circle before the balcony, then finally stopped, facing the harbor. Jack leaned against the wall with the painted map, frowning. "You told them where the heart was."

A shrug. "Didn't take it with you to Kingston?"

No answer, though Jack felt that the temperature in the room had just became quite chilly. Then, "It would have been safer here than if it had been found on my person. Since no one else knew of it."

"Your oversight," Norrington said witheringly. "You can't really have expected to trust me to keep my silence."

"Not when faced with a better offer?" Coldly. Silence from Norrington. "Come now, Commodore. That rather puerile game you and the Tembury-Lysanders are playing was an obvious indication that you've been bought over. Don't be too trusting of their word and motive. They make quite the ruthless pair in these parts. Carved out a miniature empire of their own stretching to New Amsterdam, and being both so young."

"And you, of all people, are giving me a warning?"

A snort. "I just thought that perhaps you'd like to consider all the ramifications of your choice, Commodore. There used to be other East India Company Lords stationed in Montserrat, Kingston, Barbados. Now the only Lords around these parts other than myself are but here briefly on business." Absently. "The last Lord in Montserrat was found to have accidentally locked himself into his pet lion's cage. He was almost unrecognizable."

"I still have yet to hear a better offer. And even so, I'm rather inclined not to accept one from you." _After what you've done_.

A smirk. "When pawns lose their usefulness to me, I don't discard them. Once you've lost your usefulness to them… well. Don't buy pet lions, Commodore." Dryly. "No doubt they told you that they were investing in you? To be Admiral? Did you research their line? The Tembury-Lysanders and their various inbred relatives are heavily rooted in the Navy. No doubt they are already distantly related to all the Admirals employed by His Majesty."

A yawn. Norrington walked over and slumped into one of the chairs, fiddling with the brocade on one heavy sleeve. "You'd have to forgive me if I'm unable to approach anything you say without a pinch of salt, Lord Beckett. And I still haven't heard any offer."

Beckett turned, his lip curled into a smirk. "I propose we barter, Commodore. Your freedom from me – and hence the lack of a need to continue in your over-saccharine act with the Tembury-Lysanders. There is a book that they keep somewhere on the _Stormy Petrel_. My sources have informed me that its cover is the finest doeskin leather, but otherwise plain, heavily locked, and hidden somewhere difficult to find in a ship patrolled by assassins. Give me the location."

"What's in that book?" Norrington asked, his natural curiosity aroused.

"Perhaps it'd interest you, Commodore. It's a ledger of traded lives. A body count, among other details. Conquests, allies, enemies. A list of the various living properties of the Earl of Southsend." Dryly. "No doubt someday if you marry into their family you might get a page."

Jack personally didn't think it believable that the twins would keep such an incriminating book – but he hadn't expected Beckett to leave the heart in Port Royal, either. Perhaps something about nobility pushed them towards oversight.

"What do you want me to do, steal it?"

"It's entirely up to your discretion, Commodore." A smirk.

Norrington was frowning. "I'd think about it."

"You may go," Beckett said absently. Just before Norrington reached the door, however, he added, "And you'd better find it fast, Commodore, before I discover who's been warming your bed, lately." A smirk. "Terms can _so_ easily change."

Norrington didn't look back – stalking out into the corridor, brushing past a tea-laden Mister Mercer.

--

The Commodore seemed distracted at dinner. Jack watched the twins exchange brief glances – and again with their practiced ease, they cut Norrington into a private room, this time in Governor Swann's residence. The study, it seemed – judging from the number of books and the disused desk. Lady Katherine perched on it, her brother at her side, as they faced the Commodore.

The Earl was the first to speak. "I take it Lord Beckett has guessed at our game and extended a counter offer."

"We're surprised at you, Commodore," Lady Katherine agreed. "We'd have thought you wouldn't want to have anything else to do with that man, after what he's likely done to you."

"His offer doesn't involve me getting married," Norrington leaned against a bookcase wearily, fingers curled under a shelf.

"Still worried about that?" Lady Katherine pouted prettily. "And we'd thought you were all for proceeding. Seeing as your… lover, whoever he was, is socially unattainable in that regard."

At Norrington's raised eyebrow, she chuckled merrily. "Victor and I talked about it. It can't be a lady, even if she's attached, because I doubt you're one to concern yourself far too much about marrying down. And I personally can't really see you as the sort to commit adultery. So… it has to be a man. Hopefully not one of your marines?"

Stiffly. "None of your business."

"True. Forgive our idle speculation," the Earl agreed. "But of course, we'd be interested to know what Lord Beckett's offer is."

Norrington ignored the veiled request. "He intimated that the both of you already have familial influence over the current Admirals."

"Influence isn't a public affair, Commodore," Lady Katherine pointed out. "Marriage is."

"And there's a distinction in consequences?"

"Believe us when we say that is true," the Earl smiled. "Also, we need the marriage for other reasons, if you recall, outside of the issue of your potential Admiralty."

"Even if you cannot find a rare man," Norrington said dryly, "You can probably frighten one into being so."

"And risk scandal if he were ever to fall into a rival's hands?" the Earl countered. More gently. "What did Lord Beckett want, Commodore?"

Norrington glanced up at the ceiling. "A book. Locked. Doeskin." Green eyes met the twins' stare. "Does it exist?"

Lady Katherine smiled faintly. "Of course." She glanced up at her brother. An arched eyebrow from him, a little shrug from her, and a faint grin on both faces.

"And we'd give it to you," the Earl added, "If you can somehow procure a more substantial agreement from Lord Beckett other than his given word to leave you be."

Norrington blinked. "You will?" Narrowed eyes. "Why?"

"Call it a token of trust," Lady Katherine said blandly. "Since you appear to need so very many of those. Or reward, since you've been playing your part quite well." Dryly. "Though, you know, Commodore, I was being farcical when I described what I wanted out of an act of courtship. I've enjoyed it, but Victor has observed that it was probably really difficult for you. You should really just talk to me as just another person, Commodore. As someone you'd like to know better. For our purposes, it'd be just the same."

"So you'd give me the book if I can get something more… substantial from Beckett in the way of an agreement."

"We'd give you our word, Commodore." The Earl said playfully. "Swear on our mother's name, if you'd like. We do, of course, want you to agree not to try and look inside the book, at any time. We don't want everybody to know our secrets, after all."

"Somehow," Norrington drawled, "This sounds far too easy to be true."

Lady Katherine shrugged one graceful shoulder. "Believe what you want, Commodore. The book is yours to trade with as you see fit, with the aforementioned stipulations. Whenever you're ready, just pass a brief note to Mister Bartleson – that tall, thin footman with the anxious tic in his jaw. I think I pointed him out to you before."

Norrington opened his mouth to reply, then blinked when there was some sort of muffled uproar from the outside. The Earl frowned, and raised his voice a little, addressing the footman waiting outside. "What the devil? Bartleson?"

A quiet voice from behind the door. "You might want to see this, sir."


	9. Mocking Heaven

Author's note: Plotbunny for this chapter from sudden random thought around the lines of "They better be casting Takeshi Kaneshiro for the 3rd movie!" However, it was not to be. Also – wth, this fic was originally intended to be in 5 chapters. Tt

Chapter 9

Mocking Heaven

The footman held open the door as Jack and Norrington followed the twins out into the corridor, and down towards the large function room where they had left all the other guests to their own devices.

A rather dirty Elizabeth Swann, hair shorn short just above the shoulders, was tearfully and incoherently embracing her father. William Turner was beaming at the side, though something in his eyes and Elizabeth's poise suggested at exhaustion on the verge of physical collapse. Both were dressed in very disreputable, assorted buccaneer clothes that Jack didn't recognize, crusted with salt and sand – William's were a little too small, Elizabeth's a little too large. One yellowing sleeve on William's arm was torn up to the elbow, and there was an ugly, just-healing scar next to his elbow. Elizabeth's hands were no longer pretty and ladylike – a working woman's hands now, callused and cracked from where they were buried in her father's brocade clothing. William glanced up at them when they entered the room, his eyes widening slightly, and then he looked away quickly.

Jack looked within himself and, at this moment, only felt overwhelming relief. Bootstrap's whelp and Elizabeth were well, if rather painfully thin and perhaps changed beyond polite society's ability to reaccept completely. With both here, Governor Swann, at least, was free from Beckett. The guests were being ushered out pointedly, with apologies from the butler – Norrington turned to go, then found that William had sidled up alongside and was poking him in the arm.

"East parlor."

Norrington arched an eyebrow, then nodded slightly. He turned right at the foyer instead of exiting with the guests, murmuring something about having left an item behind. Jack sauntered after him, wondering what William really wanted to say to the Commodore. Nothing violent, he hoped, especially if it had anything to do with the heart disappearing. Good lad, but sometimes leaned far too much towards heavy-handed means. Jack remembered, wincing, sharp knocks on the head in treasure caves. And people wondered why he seemed odd, with such strange friends.

Eventually William entered the room, closing it behind him. He glanced at Norrington again, then, to Jack's considerable shock, looked directly at the pirate – and grinned. "No halo, Jack?"

Norrington whirled, frowning at what was to him thin air, then stared back at William. "You can… you can _see _him?" Incredulous – and a little jealous, Jack noted.

"Don't tell me ye have cat blood somewhere in yer family tree, Will," Jack said slowly, "'Cos, y'know, that'd be _very_ sick."

A blank look, then a little frown. "What are you talking about?"

"Yer ability t'see me, mate," Jack gestured impatiently at a wing. "How?"

"Oh. That." William reached into a pocket, frowned, then reached into the other. "Ah, here it is." Fingers tanned brown from too long in the sun pulled out a walnut-sized, brilliant orange gem, at its heart a perfect black circle. Jack felt oddly uncomfortable, simply looking at it – like a tingle down his spine, goosebumps over his arms. And he was suddenly, inexplicably sore from last night – something which up till now he had been grateful to his current immortality for sparing him.

"Very useful little thing. Gave me a bit of a shock, also, the first time I got it. Seeing Saad here." He pointed to his right, over at nothing (or a grandfather clock, actually, but that likely wasn't it).

"It's a Hell's Emerald," Jack frowned, racking his brain and coming up with a reference. "I've seen one belonging t'Tia. But it sure as hell didn't let ye see angels. Only ghosts. An' usually they be far smaller than that."

"This one's special." William said, rather unnecessarily. "We had to find _World's End_ to get it."

Jack blinked. "How'd ye get it off th'Cap'n? Wait. Ye went off t'find _World's End_ all by yerself? Ye an' 'Lizabeth? An' did so?"

"What are the both of you talking about?" Norrington asked at the same time, irritably, left out of half the conversation. Apologetically, Jack pitched his voice to be audible to Norrington.

"_World's End_, Commodore, be a pirate ship 'bout th'same type as th'_Flyin' Dutchman_. Crewed by immortal scallywags, an' th'Cap'n be some sort o'… evil psychopath. Differin' accounts. Usually they hang 'bout th'edges o' th'Pacific, harryin' ships." A pause. "Can't remember what his story is, actually, an' in any case, Tia probably be better placed tellin' it. Probably somethin' melodramatic, like Davy Jones'."

William handed Norrington the gem when the Commodore held out his palm. The taller man looked around, blinked, then tentatively put a hand on Jack's shoulder. There was a sharp, painful jolt, and Jack flinched away. "Ow!"

"Uh. Forgot. You shouldn't touch guardian-class angels when holding that," William said apologetically. "It sort of… repels them. Painfully."

Norrington was looking over the whelp's shoulder, with a frown. "That's yours? Saad?" Tilted his head, then smiled wryly, and dipped his chin. "My apologies. Pleased to meet you."

"Don't mind him, he's been firmly trying to believe he's still invisible, ever since we got this," William plucked the gem back from Norrington's grip. "I mean, even when Elizabeth offered to hug him in thanks for services rendered, keeping me safe from Kraken and whatnot."

"How'd ye know where t'go? What t'find?" Jack asked suspiciously. He knew no one else still alive who had gone with him once on a wild dare to find the _World's End_.

"It's a little complicated," William said apologetically, "Tia sort of summoned Barbossa's spirit. He's not actually alive, but he can be quite um, solid, and he tends to keep materializing apples to eat."

"She did…?"

"Uh, and then she came with us to look for _World's End_. Purchased a ship in Tortuga. Long, long cruise towards the Pacific. Didn't go all the way there though, we met it somewhere around after Rio de Janeiro." William's eyes were unfocused as he counted unlikely events off grimy fingers. The unsure, naive edge to the blacksmith was gone now, its last evidence in his speech – months of travel on the sea had likely drowned it, in sun-worn hardship.

"Yer tellin' a story wi' huge gaps in between it, mate," Jack said wearily, walking over to an armchair and leaning against the plush back.

"Okay. I'd start again," William took a deep breath. "After you went down with your _Pearl_ – Elizabeth is really sorry, by the way, so I hope you can forgive her – we went off to Tia Dalma, under Gibbs' influence. She said that to help you, we had to sail to the 'ends of the earth', to _World's End_. And then she introduced Barbossa, who on closer inspection wasn't really alive, but he didn't seem to mind much."

"We get down to Tortuga, and buy a ship, stock up, then start heading off towards the Pacific, which was where Barbossa said he last saw _World's End_ – somewhere off the coast of San Diego, apparently. Tia decides to go, and besides, we needed a few more hands – with her attendants – and someone to negotiate properly, she said."

"Apparently, the Captain of the _World's End_ has a… Hell's Emerald of a curious make. The least of its abilities is to allow a mortal owner to see angels, and touch them." Quietly. "Even hurt them. But that's not why we went to fetch it, of course. The Host has been after this particular emerald for a while, so Tia was thinking maybe we could trade it to them. For returning you back to life, or something. Since you didn't seem to be in Hell or Purgatory. That surprised her, by the way, that you could have gotten into Heaven," Another boyish grin. "Unless you like being an angel. Feathers. And… it looks like you're actually clean. You know, this probably suits you better." William grinned when Jack glared at him. "Anyway. That's because we thought you were dead, see. Just dead, that is."

"Then about a couple months into the trip Tia cuts open some unsuspecting seagull on the deck – really disgusting, by the way – and says you're back on Earth. As a Guardian Angel. After she was done scolding everybody for laughing themselves sick, she said well, since we were all the way here already we might as well continue with the original plan. Get the emerald, head back to Port Royal and give you the choice of whether or not you really want to go back to being human." William opened his arms wide. "And after that, then I'd start on the whole business of the heart and my father." A glance at Norrington. "I suppose you traded it to Beckett."

"He doesn't have it anymore," Norrington said absently, struggling, like Jack, to absorb the information. "It's with the Earl of Southsend."

"Well, _blast_," William said with a deep sigh. "Jack, this is all your fault. If we didn't have to… " A pause. "Oh. I guess you could always steal it for us. Being, you know…" He clasped both hands before him, as though in prayer.

"Ye still have t'tell me how ye got it off th'Cap'n, mate," Jack ignored the suggestion as well as the illogical accusation.

"Well, er, we borrowed it."

"Borrowed it, as in, in the sense that Sparrow borrows something?" Norrington asked slowly. Surnames again. "Or in the sense of, having the consent of the owner?" Obviously worried over the wrath of supernatural pirates and further raids on Port Royal.

"Consent. In a sense. No, _really_," William protested, when Norrington and Jack both raised an eyebrow. "We found the ship, told them what we wanted it for, and they let us have it. Tia negotiated, though. In private, with the Captain, so we're not really sure what happened."

"Where's Tia now?"

"Back at her island, with Barbossa and the monkey," William shrugged. "She has a note for you." He reached in his coat, and took out a heavy envelope, handing it quickly to Jack. "To be opened in private. I don't know what it is, but sometimes it moves."

Jack pocketed the envelope gingerly. "An' where's _World's End_ now?"

"The Captain was nice enough to take us back. It's currently anchored in a cove near Port Royal."

"…_What_?"

--

Norrington insisted on going to look (immediately) at supernatural pirate ships anchored within the heart of his jurisdiction. William, on the other hand, pleaded starvation, weariness and the need for a hot bath, and refused flatly at this moment. Eventually, they agreed to meet sometime after dinner, outside Norrington's residence, whenever William felt ready. Norrington had gone off to speak to Beckett – a small argument had ensued, given that Jack felt he really did have to speak to Tia immediately. Eventually, the Commodore had simply muttered something about not needing babysitting, and gone off towards the Company mansion.

That gave Jack some time to disappear up onto the roof, away from hissing ship's cats, and open the envelope. Perhaps if he got over whatever Tia wanted to tell him so urgently that she'd use this personalized scrying spell, he'd go check on Commodores who could hopefully take care of themselves for an hour. Grimaced, as something black, cold, flat and spidery crawled out of it and onto his palm. The circular body pressed into his skin, and ten long legs formed perfect concentric patterns. A prickling burn, and the… thing was merely marks on his palm – like an exotic tattoo, that in Jack's experience would begin to fade after an hour or so.

He held up the hand before his face, and looked through the black circle – and into Tia's cottage. The table was cleared of its usual clutter, instead holding four guttering candles, set at the points of a circular pattern that matched the one on his palm. "Wanted t'speak t'me, luv?"

Tia was lounging in her chair – she smiled slowly, dark eyes looking straight at him. "Jack. How's bein' an angel doing for you?" (Ain-Ghel).

"Not bad," Jack said, adding playfully, "Didn't know ye cared, luv."

"I knew youse get yourself killed someday, Jack," Tia shook her head pityingly, dreadlocks shifting, her oddly cadenced voice wry, "Just dinna think it'd be to somethin' so troublesome."

"I'm wonderin' now, luv, how ye managed t'get Cap'n Brand t'give up somethin' o' his," Jack commented mildly. "An' such an interestin' little trinket, at that."

"The Cap'n o' the _World's End_ is not Cap'n Brand, no more than your pistol be th'Cap'n o' your _Pearl_," Tia corrected. "He be a tool. The real Cap'n be one Matsumono Ichiro." A grin, alien syllables fielded with some difficulty. "He be what ye call a rogue angel. Used t'be Brand's Guardian. I owed him a favor, long time, now I be payin' him back."

"But you took the emerald."

"The debt be far less than the repayment otherwise," Tia flapped a hand impatiently. "An' we be borrowin' it only. Supposedly."

Jack was beginning to develop a deep suspicion. "Wait. Does this have anythin' t'do wi' Miyako?"

"Youse be knowin' any other people wi' such strange names now?" Tia asked, with an arched eyebrow.

"What does it have t'do wi' Miyako?" Jack asked skeptically.

"Usual things. A little like Davy Jones," Tia said with some measure of disdain. "Men be no different, be they white or color, love be their worst undoin'. Miyako be the daughter of a Lord, an' Ichiro be one o' his knights. Samurai, I think he say it was called. Sure youse can guess what happened. She be promised t'another, they live apart, promisin' t'meet in the afterlife. Except that they both became guardian angels, dedicated to different charges an' all across the world. Round his second charge he be losin' patience, an' takes control. Turns the charge into a puppet an' goes around lookin' for her."

"Let me guess. She was deeply unimpressed by his actions an' dumped him," Jack drawled. "Mebbe violently, wi' a lot o' slappin'. Seems th'sort."

"An' then, bein' a hot-tempered sort, he be getting his charge to kill hers," Tia nodded. Jack groaned. "After that he was cast out o' Heaven, an' he's been captainin' the _World's End_ ever since."

Jack groaned again, and lay down on the roof, keeping the hand before his eye, folding wings carefully to either side. He was just, _just_ beginning to feel stressed. Why couldn't the whelps have had the decency to reappear in Port Royal in, say, a month's time, when everything else had settled down about the Lady Katherine Issue? Not to mention the soiree, and all the other female guests? Now he had to handle all the pesky little questions, to live or not to live, scheming women, Lord Beckett, as well as an additional potential issue about Miyako. "Don't tell me ye told him she's here."

"Information trades better than gold, for gems," Tia shrugged fluidly. Her smile was full of mischief. "Ye don't really need t'be worryin' 'bout it. 'Tis their problem. An' wi' Bootstrap's whelp havin' the emerald, he can't be hurtin' her."

"It's me problem if he ends up killin' Governor Swann," Jack moaned. "William might use that gewgaw an' zap me!"

"Dat be yer ego speakin', Jack," Tia chuckled. "Nothin' t'do wi' ye, how he be comin' about knowin' where Miyako is."

"Yer way too pleased wi' yerself, luv," Jack growled, now worried. "What did ye do t'Barbossa?"

"He's here an' there," Tia said, purposefully and irritatingly vague. "Took the bought ship. Off to the Indies, I think, t'have some fun until he's summoned back t'the realm of the dead. Oh. An' ye be best goin' t'steal that heart back for Bootstrap's whelp. An' maybe ye could even use it t'get back your _Pearl_."

"An' how am I s'posed t'do that, without suspicion fallin' on Norrington?" Jack drawled. He supposed other than Norrington, Beckett also knew where the heart now was… but he felt the strong urge to be… difficult. Especially given how conveniently everything appeared to be sliding slowly into place, at the moment.

"Tia be sure youse can come up with something," she smirked. "'Sides, youse already dead, nothin' t'lose, 'ey?"

Jack sighed. "Thanks, anyway. Tia. I'd be thinkin' 'bout it. What t'choose."

"Aye. Youse think careful now," The voodoo witch smirked. "Don't you come cryin' to Tia if you make a mess o' this."

--

Norrington waited outside his home, dressed in unassuming gray and white civilian's clothing – traveling coat, breeches, plain hat, long boots, Turner sword at his side, pistol in his belt. Jack perched on the lower branches of a tree, occasionally glancing down the road. The whelp was late.

"What did Beckett say?" he asked finally, to break the silence.

Norrington glanced up briefly. "He gave me a folded piece of paper with several names written on it. I'm to give it to the twins – apparently they'd understand." Irritably. "I'm not really sure I wish to know why. Some of the names are highly ranked in Naval command."

"Pretty obvious t'me, luv."

"I said I don't want to know."

"Awlright. Ignorance an' bliss, eh?"

Norrington muttered under his breath. Funny how he wanted to keep his little illusions in the face of very strong circumstantial evidence. Of corruption in the ranks, and how a Lord of the EIC out of Madras ha managed to cobble together influence and evidence to forge a rather odd warrant for the arrest of the Commodore of Jamaica who had really not done wrong enough to deserve it. Worse decisions had been made before by command, Jack knew (had personal experience, being the excuse for many of them) that had not gone punished.

The guarantee – disclosed puppets at the ends of strings. The twins could set a watch on the names, block any further attempts to ruin Norrington's career through them. Beckett probably thought it a safe bet. After all, that book could very easily ruin the twins' careers – possibly hang them both, if it had far too much detail over certain 'accidental' deaths. Not for the first time, Jack wondered, with some irritation, what they were both playing at now.

"I don't understand it," Norrington said finally, showing that he was likely following the same train of thought as Jack. "Why give up the book so easily?"

"Mebbe it's a blank book," Jack suggested. "An' it's all a trick."

"I doubt Beckett's sources would be that inaccurate, somehow."

"An' ye think th'twins would be goin' about showin' that sort o' book to just anyone? Sure it has t'be second hand information. Th'very least. Wouldn't put it beyond those two t'circulate about th'existence o' a book that could be their downfall, just t'check on who might be interested in such a book. Scope out th'enemy, savvy."

"But if that was so, then they wouldn't give up the book so easily. If they want to go along with the… pretense that it is of such value," Norrington said mildly. "Beckett should know that. So the book must be… something. But probably not what it's said to be. That's why he's willing to give that guarantee. Curiosity."

"They're probably doin' this fer ye too. Gain yer trust."

"I admit to being better disposed to them for willing to do so," Norrington confessed, locking his hands behind his back, looking up at the clouds slowly crawling over the half-moon. "But I wouldn't be surprised if they are every bit as ruthless as Beckett described."

"Don't buy pet lions," Jack repeated, then snorted. "That's really just askin' fer it, though. Buyin' those sorts o' pets. Can't th'man just be contented wi' a normal cat? Deserved t'be fed to it, in me opinion."

"That's a very odd way of looking at criminal responsibility," Norrington observed, though the edge of his lip quirked up briefly. A smirk, but an affectionate glance upwards. "Though I suppose I really should expect a skewed ideas of responsibility, from you."

Steps from the road made Jack bite back his retort. William was huffing up the slope, slightly out of breath, and instantly tumbled into an apology over his lateness. Something about Elizabeth, and pudding for supper.

--

Jack rolled his eyes. Gibbs and Marty were laughing themselves sick, slumped against the wall in the section of the crews' sleeping quarters that had been set aside for the human passengers on _World's End_. "T'aint _that _funny."

"Jack… an _angel_…" Gibbs managed, stuttering, then burst again into howls of laughter. "Good _Lord_! An' I was thinkin' that the lady be pullin' our legs!"

Jack glanced at William, who was failing to hide his snigger. Cotton was grinning, and the parrot darted bright-eyed glances at Jack. Even Norrington lips were twitching. He pouted. "Et tu?"

"You'd have to admit it's rather… um, rather, well…" William snickered, reached over, and poked a wing. Jack snapped both appendages shut behind his back, glaring at him. Marty was gasping on the ground, on his side, his small body warring between the urge to laugh some more or breathe. Gibbs had to sit down, hiccupping.

Finally, with a whiskery grin, "Sorry 'bout that, Cap'n." He crossed himself. Marty, who had just managed to calm down, burst into howls of laughter again, as did William. Jack exhaled irritably.

They were aboard the _World's End_, which was an elaborately modified galleon painted in what Jack felt was terribly garish dark red and gold. Large eyes painted on the hull, the sleek ship painted elaborately to resemble a carp. The ship was anchored just offshore, and was suspiciously empty of supernatural pirates – in fact, any pirates at all, except for members of his (former) crew. "Where's th'Cap'n o' this ship?" he asked sharply, cutting through the latest bout of laughter.

Gibbs sobered instantly, looking around them. "Round here, I bet."

Jack glanced at William, who shook his head. Gibbs frowned, then shrugged. "The crew be ghosts, Jack. They appear only when th'ship has need to set sail. Only th'Cap'n's puppet be human – mostly human, an' he keeps t'his cabin. They'd be droppin' me an' Marty off at Tortuga. No sense in hangin' around, beggin' th'pun, Commodore."

Norrington nodded. "Tortuga?"

"Aye. I be hearin' that Anamaria's comin' back from North Carolina, an' she need crew for her _Dawn Huntress_." Gibbs looked steadily at Jack as he said this, his voice apologetic. "Sorry, Cap'n. But we need… employment, bein' still, well…" An embarrassed cough. "We tried, though. T'do ye one last good turn, 'fore we left. Don't know if it be doin' ye any real good, th'gem. But well…" Another cough, "At least I'd be able t'tell Anamaria ye got one foot in Heaven, aye?"

Jack decided not to tell Gibbs anything about the whole business of the mistake and the deal with Heaven, instead nodding, with a shrug and an outrageous grin, and told Gibbs what the man wanted to hear with a drawl and an elaborate flutter of his right hand. "Hell can't keep _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, mate. Ye be givin' Anamaria me best wishes, now."

"'Tis a good ship ye picked out fer her when she wanted t'go her way," Gibbs pointed out. "Sure she be knowin' that already." The large man looked down at his fingers, briefly. "'Course, uh, we'd be waitin' a week or so in Tortuga, or until Anamaria shows up, whichever be longer. See how things turn out wi' ye. If ye be getting, well, uh, getting alive again, an' need a crew, our first loyalties always be t'ye."

Marty and Cotton nodded.

"So… when're ye leavin'?" Jack asked solemnly.

"Whenever th'Cap'n be of th'mind to," Gibbs shrugged. "He said somethin' 'bout havin' t'meet a lady."

Jack had a sudden icy moment of dread. "An' ye be sure that he's at his cabin?"

--

Smudged painting effect, and Jack was staggering back, disoriented, against a tree. A quick glance around revealed that he was somewhere in the elaborately trimmed garden of the Swann residence. Ah. Good.

The sharp sound of a palm smacking into a cheek caused Jack to flinch automatically and flail hands forward to protect his face. No pain, though – he peeked. Miyako was tensed, her petite frame coiled, one hand coming up from the downward curve. Another angel stood before her, hands curled into fists, face snapped to a side. A wild mane of black hair that writhed down half his back, chiseled, handsome face ruined by knowing eyes that had seen far too much of damnation. A long, curved sword at his hip, and a shorter one, both with elaborate, long hilts and black-enamel scabbards, held in place by a white sash over oddly designed layered black robes with billowing sleeves. Very odd two-toed white socks, sandals. Lips that could once have been capable of gentle smiles instead curved into a habitual sneer as Jack was noticed. "Captain Jack Sparrow, I presume."

Miyako transferred her glare briefly to Jack, who found himself backing away up against the tree and fluttering his fingers in the face of feminine wrath. Hell hath no fury, and all that. "S'pose yer Cap'n Ichiro."

"Matsumono," Ichiro corrected. "Is my family name. The witch woman didn't know better."

"And the first Matsumono to disgrace it so utterly," Miyako said icily. "Leave!"

"I haven't concluded my business," Ichiro said blandly, and glanced over at the Swann mansion eloquently. "Same terms, Miyako-sama. Old times."

Jack flinched again, as the next slap snapped Ichiro's head to the other side. He smiled though, wryly, as he looked back to her.

"You dare," she spat. "You dare mock Heaven again?"

Ichiro shrugged. "Heaven mocks us both, Miyako-sama. We worked so hard to avoid happiness when we were alive, and it is denied us both in death. Heaven also seems slow to mete out justice." A curt gesture at himself. "For I have gone unpunished. Can you say then that Heaven is just? Yet it shows such caprice. Think you nothing odd that Captain Sparrow is dressed as he was in death?"

Miyako glanced thoughtfully at Jack, then her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the still-lighted rooms of the Swann residence. "I care not. Jack may have his faults, but he has a good heart. I do not believe he will fail. I feel he deserves Heaven."

"I find it a travesty, Miyako-sama, that we were treated so, yet this man who has not led an honorable life has been given a second chance in the afterlife, to do with as he sees fit." Fingers idly played with the hilt of the longer sword.

"Aye, well, mebbe if ye asked them _nicely_," Jack swayed as he leaned forward and grinned, fingers gesturing with no particular meaning. "P'haps they'd warm t'ye too, aye? Could be they really thought this was what ye wanted, savvy?"

Ichiro's response was a mockery of a pleasant smile – he shifted almost imperceptibly – right foot ahead of the other, one hand curled in the air above the hilt of the longer sword. "When I draw my blade, Captain Sparrow, either my opponent or myself must be destroyed."

"M'surprised ye can say that sort o' thing out loud an' keep a straight face, mate."


	10. Hell's Emeralds

Author's note: Can't finish in 10 after all… facepalm

Chapter 10

Hell's Emeralds

"This is pointless, Matsumono," Miyako said angrily. "We are all here souls who have passed through the veil. We can't hurt each other, let alone destroy each other!"

Ichiro smirked. "Do you know what are Hell's Emeralds, Miyako-sama? No? But I see that Captain Sparrow does. They are fallout from the last War in Heaven. Angel's blood. And the blood of the Archangels who fought beside or against Lucifer – with that one can, with the requisite knowledge, forge a weapon to be the bane of angels."

He drew his blade, flowing into a flat-footed stance alien to Jack's conception of footwork and style, the blade held with both hands before him. Along its edge was a thin yellow tracing that captured the pale light of the moon. "This blade is named Negation, Captain Sparrow, and it is the reason why Heaven has left me well alone for so many years."

"D'ye really have t'talk like that, mate?" The women – it probably appealed to women. Jack sighed. It seemed that, in defiance of all logic or expectation, his afterlife managed to involve even odder problems in the space of a few months than life ever had. And he'd thought that nothing could beat voodoo magic, undead pirates, sea monsters and various myths that weren't so mythical after all, all in the space of thirteen or so years… now he was having rogue Oriental angels, questions of his immortal soul and magic weapons, all couched in the backdrop of the issue of his current conscripted vocation. And ghost pirates. Couldn't forget the ghost pirates. If he wasn't actually experiencing it at this moment, he'd rather have thought this all a fantasy thought up by somebody who daydreamed a little too much about convenient adventure fiction.

And people wondered why he was daft.

The proximity of the edge of Hell's Emeralds on the blade was affecting Miyako as well – she was shying away from it, stumbling, white fingers clutching at her throat. Ichiro ignored her, instead beginning to circle – this, at least, was a dance that Jack knew well. With another deep sigh, he drew his own, rather battered sword. Step, step and step. A sudden quicksilver lunge from the other angel, and Jack barely had time to bring up his sword in a guard. The blow numbed his fingers and sent a bolt of pain through his suddenly sore frame – Jack cursed, and danced back, swaying precariously.

He darted around the next blow, hand outstretched as he sliced at an arm. Clothing parted, but the cut that the blade opened merely stitched itself shut. Ichiro looked bored. "You can't harm me with a sword that isn't real, Captain Sparrow."

Jack considered running. As Tia had said, this really was none of his business, and he wasn't sure why he had, as it were, interfered in the first place. There was no actual profit in it for him, and Miyako wasn't even really what he would call a close friend. Besides, there was no actual harm in it for her, was there?

It was the guardian angel thing. The invisibility. It made him far too inclined to meddle in things he didn't need to.

To buy himself time to think, Jack spent most of his time running (strategically retreating), or purely on the defensive. Parrying, dodging, and flailing around in the hopes of throwing Ichiro off balance by his apparently absolutely random style. It had worked before, on marines in particular – they tended to underestimate him from the yelps and the fluttering hands – but like William, and Barbossa, Ichiro wasn't fooled. Pity. Norrington had been easy enough, on that island, to convince that William was the larger threat.

"That all ye got?" Jack called, sidestepping another wicked slice.

Ichiro backed off gracefully, and began to circle again. Deja-vu – Jack followed his cue. "Actually, Captain Sparrow, I now have your measure. But it has been a while since I've dueled anybody of any skill. So good of your friends to invite me all the way into foreign territory, over the wards that Davy Jones used to stake out his claim."

"Don't holdin' that sword hurt yer fingers?" Jack asked curiously, ignoring the rather odd comment about wards, given that the blade seemed like a far more immediate problem. Simply looking at it was making him uncomfortable.

"With sufficient self-control, any pain is bearable," Ichiro informed him. Their blades met, in a cross. "And you misunderstand the basic tenet of fighting when both of us are in spiritual form."

"An' what's that be?"

"These weapons are but an extension of our faith in ourselves," Ichiro smiled. Cold, like a shark. There was a sudden lack of resistance, as though he was holding a stick of butter, to a knife.

Instinctively, Jack leaped back – but not before his sword was sheared almost in two, with a sound that made him grit his teeth and his ears threaten to mutiny. "Oh… bugger."

Right. There were so many important things that people always failed to tell him until the worst moment. Such as, say, the usage of giant squid pets as a method of collecting on debts, when drunk and agreeing to a contract. Or the fact that very pretty young ladies of society could have their morals corrupted enough by desperation to sacrifice pirate captains who thought a little too much with the lower bit of their bodies rather than the brain. Ahem. Irrelevant thought, especially at this moment.

Jack parried a feint that drove his guard low, then flinched as he realized his mistake. The longer sword swept back up with the momentum from the blow and whirled down again, in a deadly arc.

White, and brushing feathers. Miyako caught the blade between her palms, having darted between them, the edge slicing into the tip of Jack's tricorn hat. What looked suspiciously like smoke edged out from between her palms, from where they met the yellow line. Ichiro's eyes were wide in shock.

"This is the strength of my conviction, Ichiro-kun," Miyako said softly. "Of how wrong you are, at this moment."

Ichiro pulled the blade away, lowering it to his side. "No, Miyako-sama. Against you, my blade has no edge."

Jack muttered under his breath about melodramatic Oriental angels, catching one of Miyako's palms and turning it up to check it. There was a nasty-looking red line etched into pale flesh, like a brand. His 'P' scar itched. "Ye'd better be getting somethin' cold onto this," he said, just as he realized how… stupid those words were. Certainly mortal remedies couldn't affect an angel.

Miyako glanced down briefly at her palms. "They'd heal by themselves, Jack. Unlike some other wounds." Black eyes were cold as she looked back up at Ichiro. "You'd not kill Weatherby."

"The last time you felt so strongly that your role was not to intervene that you let me kill that fat brown woman," Ichiro looked piercingly at Jack. "You've changed, Miyako-sama."

"I didn't think you would kill her, simply to make a point," Miyako hissed. "I won't make that mistake again. Thinking that you still have a core of honor within you."

"Try and stop me," Ichiro smirked. "Captain Sparrow. Should we continue our duel? Men do not hide behind the skirts of women."

"Nobody's hidin'," Jack shrugged. "But th'way I see it, there's a wee bit o' an unfair disadvantage that ye've got, mate."

"Didn't I lend your friends a rather large Hell's Emerald? You merely have to hold it in your hands and challenge me," Ichiro traced a circle in the air. Will's emerald tumbled out, rolling to Jack's feet.

Jack picked it up, dropped his sword, drew his pistol, cocked and fired, all in one fluid motion. The bad angle, however, skewed the shot – it punched high up through Ichiro's left shoulder, the man blinking in comic surprise. There was a choked sound, then he coughed out something silvery that solidified into tiny grains of Hell's Emeralds when they hit the grass. Likely had bitten his tongue, poor thing. A snarl. "No honor at all!"

"Yer a pirate yerself, mate," Jack gestured with the pistol, ignoring the way the Hell's emerald burned like a coal in his hand. "Should be knowin' that swords an' honor, they ain't really th'way a pirate prefers t'fight. Now, what not ye be leavin' Miyako alone now? Seein' as th'lady isn't exactly inclined t'enjoy yer attentions. Oh, an' leave Gibbs, Marty an' Cotton where they want t'go, safe an' sound, aye?"

"You can't hold that forever," Ichiro sneered.

"I can, however, shoot ye full o' holes 'fore that," Jack replied evenly.

With a final hissed oath, Ichiro vanished. Jack quickly dropped the stone, wringing his hand and grimacing at the reddened mark. "M'don't care, I'm going t'find some ice."

"We can't just leave it there," Miyako pointed at the gem.

"Oh, hell… why not ye go get 'Lizabeth, suggest it's real important that she come down t'the garden right now?"

Blowing over the mark on his palm didn't seem to help, nor did wringing it. Jack finally sat down on the grass, poking around the edges a little miserably, looking up only when Miyako was back. Elizabeth bent down and picked up the emerald.

Elizabeth frowned down at Jack, but failed to look threatening when dressed for bed, with only a heavy robe thrown over her shift. "Why is this here? Where's Will?"

"He's fine. The original owner just repossessed it fer a bit," Jack shrugged. "Knowin' them, they're probably headed here right now. Hopefully wi' Gibbs an' th'rest, since I think th'Cap'n probably wouldn't be o' a good disposition right of this moment."

"Oh Jack… your poor hand!" Elizabeth bent down and grabbed his wrist, questions of her fiancé forgotten for the moment in horror. "We'd better get something put on it."

"I was told it wouldn't help," Jack glanced to Miyako for confirmation – then frowned. The petite angel was gone. Confused, he allowed himself to be dragged back into the Swann residence.

Ice actually made him feel better. Or it could be because he expected to feel better. Same thing. Holding the pack over the burn, he listened to and accepted a soft apology, then related, under her insistence, exactly how the emerald had gotten into the garden. They sat in the east parlor, with Elizabeth curled up in a chair and Jack cross-legged on the tea table. She pursed her lips. "I see. So that Captain was so helpful because he wanted directions. To kill my father." Eyes narrowed in irritation, and her hand tightened around the gem. "We'll see about that."

"Ye won't be doin' any seein' to 'round th'lines o' goin' t'his ship an' tryin' t'kill him, are ye?" Jack asked cautiously. "'Cos, y'know, luv, yer a wee bit too much like yer Will sometimes."

"What else do you suggest?" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.

"Mebbe some old fashioned parley?"

"Your parleys don't always turn out very well for everybody," Elizabeth said, a little snidely, Jack thought. "And besides, you can't hold this without burning yourself."

There was a knock on the window. Both glanced over to see William waving while clinging on to the ledge. Elizabeth unlatched it, and there were a few confused moments as William and Norrington were helped up over the sill. Gibbs nearly stuck in the frame, and Marty had to be lifted up. The parrot squawked irritably as Cotton, finally, was pulled into the room.

Norrington grabbed Jack's wrist – visibility issues had been briefly forgotten, in the pain – and lifted up the cloth-wrapped packet of ice. He frowned at the red mark. "How?"

"Turns out that pretty stone don't like bein' held by angels," Jack said evasively. Unfortunately, before he could say anything to stop Elizabeth, she had already begun recounting what he had told her. Norrington frowned, letting go of Jack's hand, when she was done – in concert with William.

"Right. We go back, shoot him, then have some hot chocolate and turn in for the day," William decided, opening his palm for the stone. Elizabeth refused to relinquish it.

"I'm going with you."

"Like that?" William grinned boyishly. "Your father's probably burned those boy's clothes by now, and, well, a dress is going to take you ages to change into. Not to mention it's inappropriate for boarding pirate ships and shooting their captains."

Months out at sea with his beloved had, Jack noticed, also rubbed out the rather tongue-tied way William used to get around Elizabeth. They now seemed to settle easily into the banter of partners, rather than two younglings in love.

"I'd have you know, William Turner, that I can shoot better than you even if I had to wear one of those damned London society dresses," Elizabeth retorted.

"Language, miss," Jack cut in, just as William opened his mouth to argue. When Elizabeth transferred her glare to him he added, quickly, "Though I like th'change. Now, why not ye be makin' th'hot cocoa, an' we be goin' t'settle business?"

"If I slap you holding this, Jack, I'm sure it'd hurt. A lot," Elizabeth said evenly, holding up the gem. Jack cringed behind Norrington, who looked amused.

--

Eventually, Elizabeth agreed, ungraciously, to remain behind in the Swann evidence with Cotton for company, the two of them having struck up an unlikely if silent friendship in the course of the voyage to find the _World's End_. The rest of them had gone back down to the cove, only to find (to Gibbs' consternation) that the _World's End_ had set sail, and could be seen fast disappearing into the dark sea.

"Now what?" Norrington asked.

"I don't believe he'd just leave like that," William frowned down at the surf. "He's probably gone to lick his wounds."

Elizabeth agreed with Will, when they returned to the residence, and also graciously extended Swann hospitality to Gibbs, Marty and Cotton. A sidelong glance at Norrington. "James. Could you… overlook their presence, for the time being?"

Norrington arched an eyebrow. "Ignore the presence of wanted pirates?"

Elizabeth pouted prettily. "All right. I can't really think of anything we have of value, except… what about if we give you the Hell's…"

"Wait, wait, 'Lizabeth," Jack sashayed forward and grinned, fluttering his fingers. "I be their Cap'n, so I'd do th'negotiatin', aye?"

She frowned at him. "Ex-Captain."

"M'still here so m'still Cap'n," Jack wrung one seemingly boneless hand dismissively. "So, Commodore…"

"What makes you think I don't want that emerald?" Norrington smirked.

"What makes ye think I can't come up wi' a better offer?" Jack retorted.

Norrington looked him slowly up and down, with no inflexion in expression or any hint of salacious intent, but Jack still had to suppress a shiver of anticipation. "You're dead, Captain Sparrow."

"Th'heart. I'd steal th'heart."

Was that a brief flicker of disappointment? Jack grinned. Norrington's face assumed its habitual mask. William, missing the subtext totally, protested, "But I want the heart!"

"Ah, an' ye have just th'thing to trade fer it, aye?" Jack pointed at the gem that was seriously giving him the willies. "That way everybody's happy, aye?"

"Oh. I suppose so." William blinked. "Okay."

"In that case," Norrington said amiably, "I suppose that, within the bounds of reason, I can fail to notice some of the additional… latecomers, to Governor Swann's soiree."

Gibbs blinked. "Say what?"

"Means ye have t'dress up," Jack glanced down at Marty significantly, who folded short arms. "An' behave."

--

"Don't see why ye want it," Jack said, seated haphazardly on Norrington's desk later, when they were alone in the bedchamber. "Even if ye can see me, m'not bloody comin' anywhere near ye."

"In addition, nobody would be able to see you. Or use it to hurt you," Norrington said over his shoulder, hanging up his coat.

"Ye think that don't sound suspicious t'the whelps if they ask ye why ye want th'gem?"

"They already know, Jack," Norrington said wryly, slouching into a chair to remove his boots. "William told me as much on the way here. It seems your friend Miss Dalma is very good at clairvoyance, and also very bad at holding secrets."

"Oh." Jack glanced quickly at Norrington – who didn't seem upset in the least. "Don't mind?"

"Don't mind them knowing," Norrington shrugged. "I suppose I might have. Before everything. But now… well, perhaps having a warrant over your head changes a person. It's so much more difficult to care about the niceties of society."

Jack scooted over to sit at the edge, pulling off his boots and using toes to knead an inner thigh. Norrington stopped in the act of unlacing his second boot, and looked up. Questioning. Jack smirked. "Expected me t'trade favors fer favors?"

"It crossed my mind," the Commodore confessed, shirking off his boot and leaning back against the chair, an arm over the back, the other on a rest, his legs casually open.

"Would ye have accepted?" Jack asked curiously. Toes moved a little higher, and he could see the beginnings of an appropriate response in Norrington's breeches. A soft gasp escaped the other man.

"What do you think?"

"Sexual favors t'shirk yer duties? Th'Commodore would never do that," Jack smirked, shifting a little, now rubbing the hardening ridge with the ball of his foot. Norrington's eyes were closed, his lips open, shaping hitching moans, hips jerking as toes squeezed lightly and slipped slowly up towards the tip. "Not sure 'bout James, though, seein' as he's quite th'libertine, nowadays. Could be a sign o' bein' daft, that, havin' two personalities, eh?"

"Speak… speak for yourself," Norrington gasped. "Jack, and… Captain Sparrow."

"Aye. A title, an' a name. Same as ye," Jack curled his toes, angled, and stroked up and down, leisurely. "Could be we're very alike."

"I very much doubt it," Norrington said, tiring of the teasing – he leaned up and pulled Jack bodily into his lap. A moan – possibly from Jack – as clothed erections were pressed up against each other, his legs curled a little uncomfortably under the rests and off the chair, wings outstretched behind him. He rolled his hips forward – Norrington growled, and snapped his own up, sharply. Ah. Impatient. Jack purred, stroking hands down from broad shoulders to muscular arms. Warm palms settled on his hip, then one trailed down to his rump. The purr became louder.

Fingers stilled over the cleft. "Sore?" Norrington whispered

"See me limpin'?"

"No." Both long fingers now fumbling with belts. "God. Must you wear so many damned belts?"

"Only sore near th'gem," Jack gasped when a forefinger inadvertently rasped against his prick. Fair's fair – he began to grind himself insistently against the delicious heat against him. Norrington arched, cursed when his fingers fumbled at the clasp, then yanked at it uselessly. "Hey, hey. Careful."

"Stop… stop that. Or help me, damnit," The other man managed to say, his eyes cloudy with need, then he frowned adorably as he attempted to focus on something Jack had said. "Something about the… Hell's Emerald?"

"Aye. Think it makes an angel near it a little more… human. Fer a bit. An' it ain't a very comfortable process, I can tell ye."

"Jack. Seriously. Stop. Or I'm going to…"

"To what?"

"Do something… uhh… utterly undignified."

"An' we aren't bein' utterly undignified at th'moment? Ye wi' a lapful o' pirate?"

A growl. Jack found himself lifted back onto the table. Norrington rested his head on a thigh, gasping, shoulders trembling, then he glanced up irritably. Jack smirked. "Want t'put that mouth t'better use?"

-cut. Full version at sparringtonDotigotfreeDotcom-

Completion made Jack sag onto his elbows on the desk, forehead against the cool wood, panting. From the sounds of it, Norrington had slumped into the chair, breathlessly chuckling.

Finally, Jack muttered, "What?"

"And to think just a day or so ago you were absolutely against debauchery."

"Aye, well, when ye've gone some o' th'way, might as well go all o' th'way. Don't see ye complainin'. 'Sides, ye need practice."

"I don't see _you_ complaining."

"Just sayin' that yer technique could use some polishin'."

"I'm not the one currently sprawled in a compromising position."

"Ain't relevant t'what m'sayin'."

"Or the one who was begging to be done harder."

"… still not relevant…"

A snort.


	11. Promotions

Author's Note: Yeah, going to finish soon (probably in 12), and a little abruptly (leaving space for a sequel, probably). / but like mentioned earlier in Fathoms, I have a terrible habit of occasionally losing interest suddenly. XD Art will make up for it sometime.

Chapter 11

Promotions

"This still seems far too easy," Norrington remarked out aloud, as Lady Katherine handed him a slender, elaborately carved box clasped with burnished brass, the lock an exquisite confection of white gold. The Earl placed two keys atop it – one iron, one silver, both initialed simply near the tip with a curved 'T.L'. "And I hate surprises."

"Gift horses, Commodore," Lady Katherine grinned, and exchanged glances with the Earl, as if sharing a private joke. They were in a private function room in Port Royal's only 'gentleman' club – a relatively new affair, constructed since Lord Beckett's arrival. Terribly masculine place. Subdued décor, austere paintings and the occasional very shiny suit of armor – and the lingering scent of cigar smoke. The Earl and his sister stood next to one heavily draped window; Jack and Norrington next to a bust on the mantelpiece of some long-dead, wigged person that Jack didn't recognize. Privately, the pirate had no idea how Lady Katherine had managed to wheedle her way in, but seeing as how she seemed attached to her brother at the hips, he supposed it really wouldn't have been difficult.

"Horses bite," Norrington muttered, but he pocketed the keys. "And kick."

"Thanks for the note," The Earl said benignly, ignoring the grumbles and the willingness to take a metaphor a little too far. "My sister and I would love to stay and chat, but we'd better be using the little break while everybody settles down over Miss Swann's return to send a few discreet messages to London."

"Re-deploy a few pawns," Lady Katherine smiled. "Now that we know who he puppets in the Navy."

"And Parliament."

"And the House of Lords."

The twins looked like cats that had just come across several large tubs of cream. Jack grinned, unable to help but be caught up in their enthusiasm, despite his misgivings about secret plans.

"He could ruin you. If this is book is what he says it is," Norrington tapped at the box.

"Oh, it is, Commodore," The Earl said with a little nod. "Perhaps more than he can imagine."

"Then… why?" Norrington asked, uncomprehendingly.

"What's on the box, Commodore?" Lady Katherine asked gently. "And on the book?"

Norrington glanced at the case, then back up at them. "Locks." A pause. "But I have the keys."

"And did he technically _ask_ you for the keys?" The Earl folded gloved hands into his 'casual' dark green coat (still terribly heavy with brocade, that, though the pattern suspiciously military in its neat severity).

The Commodore glanced down at his shoes, his lips quirking up wryly. "No." A pause. "Then why give me the keys?"

"We trust you, Commodore, to do what you see fit," Lady Katherine grinned playfully. "If you'd like, you can give Lord Beckett the keys. Or keep them, throw them into the sea, open the book for yourself. It's up to you."

"Which key opens the book?"

"The iron one," the Earl said, without hesitation.

Norrington reached into his pocket, and took out both keys. He opened the box with the specified key and glanced briefly at the book. Jack peeked – it was exactly like how Beckett had described it, resting on dark blue velvet. Doeskin leather, and heavily locked in turn in what looked like iron. The Commodore closed the box again, and locked it. The iron key he put back into his pocket – the silver one he handed back to Lady Katherine, who arched an eyebrow in surprise.

"Commodore?" she asked.

Norrington smiled wryly. "My name is James."

Both twins returned the smile, precisely at the same time. "Victor," the Earl said.

"Katherine," his sister inclined her head. She smirked. "I must confess that I'm rather looking forward the scandal."

"What scandal?" Norrington blinked.

"When I call you James at dinner." Gleeful.

Norrington rolled his eyes, and looked over at Victor as if for aid. The brother shrugged noncommittally, his voice bland. "If she gets to call you James at dinner, then so do I."

"You're not the one marrying him," Katherine said pointedly, playfully jabbing her brother in the side. Jack blinked – the twins seemed to have relaxed their guard – not all of it, but perceptively. Becoming less of a double-act of the 'Earl of Southsend', but more like… Victor, and Katherine. "Shouldn't I get privileges?"

"But he will be my brother in law," Victor glanced at Norrington in challenge. "Well?"

"Call me whatever you like," Norrington said dryly, his eyes darting between the both of them. If he was surprised by the change, he hid it well.

" 'James' still sounds so terribly formal," Katherine pouted. "What about… 'Jamie'? Or Bobby?"

"How did you derive 'Bobby' from 'James'?" Victor drawled.

"I like the name," Katherine shrugged. Elaborate jewelry shifted around her neck – if Jack squinted, he supposed it rather looked like an 'artistic' impression of peacock feathers – the eyes picked out by tiny emeralds and rubies, curled around her neck and sweeping down towards cleavage. "It's adorable."

"You got the last 'Bobby' you knew chucked off a cliff in Jamestown."

"I don't want to know," Norrington said sharply.

Victor grinned at him. "All right. Sure? It was pretty funny, I guess. Maybe not to Bobby, but, well, objectively."

"How can throwing someone off a cliff be funny?" Norrington frowned sternly.

"Well. He didn't die," Katherine said soothingly.

"Not from falling off the cliff," Victor agreed, "The actual cause of death was…"

"Stop," Norrington said, his icy tone cutting off all protest. The twins grinned again, in perfect tandem. "That's one more thing I need to speak to you both about. If we're to continue with this… this… agreement, there will be no more misuse of power."

"Not even a little?" Katherine pouted.

"No. Or no deal."

"I don't think you appreciate the fundamental joys of power," Victor patted his sister's arm. "And you're terrible at the diplomacies of negotiation."

"Nor will I," Norrington said sternly. "Well?"

"Of _course _we agree, James," Katherine said with exaggerated exasperation, dangling the silver key before her. "That's why we gave you both keys. Instead of keeping the iron."

"Katherine thought it was about time we got a little more civilized," Victor said dryly. "She felt that all this cloak and dagger business was all right while we were still in our early twenties, but it was about time it merely became metaphorical."

"Besides, the reputation scares off potential allies in London," Katherine pointed out.

"That too," Victor agreed. A quick glance at the window and the cloaking darkness that night draped over the town. "Well. I suppose we had better be going. Do keep us updated. Port Royal is _so_ fascinating." He pursed his lips. "In fact, we might even look into acquiring some property."

"A summer house, perhaps," Katherine grinned, just as Norrington arched an eyebrow. "We could have so much fun. Cruising about, following you around the fort, lounging in the EIC building…"

"The fort isn't a tourist attraction," Norrington said austerely, mustering all the dignity he could gather.

"What? So many pretty boys in gorgeous uniforms, and it's off limits?" Katherine pouted.

"That's oppression, James," Victor agreed firmly. "I didn't think you were the tyrannical sort. Terrible, just terrible. Or is it some sort of territorial thing? Because, you know, we won't really be poaching, seeing as you're not involved with any of…"

Norrington choked, then recovered quickly enough to interrupt before the speculation began to affect his sanity, rubbing his temple as he anticipated an oncoming headache. "I don't think the wife of the Commodore should really be gawking at marines. Wasn't the agreement to be… discreet?"

"I can be discreet," Katherine pressed a hand over her heart, quivering with mock outrage. "The very idea!"

"Suddenly, I'm very worried."

--

Miyako was nowhere to be found. A quick consultation with the Turners revealed that they hadn't seen her about Governor Swann either, despite possession of the Emerald. At first, Jack wondered if she'd simply gone off somewhere to think, but after an attempt at instantaneous transport failed, he realized that she had somehow gone out of his 'sphere of influence'. Which worried him vaguely, as to his knowledge, it should have been impossible for her to wander out of her own 'sphere'. Distracted, he watched Norrington hand over the box to Beckett, sometime after lunch.

"Locked," Beckett said, poking the offending item on the box as he glanced at Norrington.

Norrington shrugged. "I asked them for the book, that's what they gave me."

"Hm," Beckett placed the box delicately on his desk. "I suppose that's why they gave it up so easily when you asked for it. Well. No matter, I am sure there are any number of locksmiths. If not in Port Royal, then in Kingston."

Norrington shrugged again, as if he didn't particularly care. "Our agreement?"

"Consideration has been received, if in a rather unwieldy manner," Beckett said distastefully, poking again at the box. "You are free, Commodore. Unless, of course, the box contains something other than what is expected."

"They showed it to me before placing it in the box," Norrington said, a little impatiently. "It's exactly as you described." The Commodore, it seemed had learned to lie a little. Assaulted from all sides by bad influences, Jack supposed. "My word on it."

"But you didn't insist on a look inside?" Beckett smirked. "No matter. Given I previously only asked you for the location of the book, rather than the book itself, this is already a marked improvement of the terms. You may go."

Norrington nodded, and stalked out of the office. Jack didn't follow, curious to see what Beckett would do next. The man waited until he could no longer hear footsteps, then stroked fingers absently over the wood. "Mister Mercer."  
"Sir?"

"Inquire as to the whereabouts of some locksmiths, would you?"

"Now sir?"

"Yes," Beckett took the box and left the room, followed by Mercer, no doubt to squirrel it away somewhere less accessible than his office. Which reminded Jack of something he really had to be doing.

--

"Heart o' Davy Jones," he muttered, and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was standing by himself in an elaborate, very masculine cabin aboard a ship. A wooden plaque with the crest of the Earl of Southsend, picked out in brass and silver, hung at one wall, next to a porthole framed in rosewood. Heavy mahogany furniture. A totally clean desk save for a locket, left casually open. Jack peered at it – a portrait of someone pretty with a kindly smile who resembled Lady Katherine. The mother, probably. Bed neatly made up, the blanket a heavy tapestry of some birds he couldn't identify.

The thumping sound was faint. Jack carefully lifted up the blankets and looked under the bed. A little box, with another heavy lock. Jack carefully took it out, put his fingers to the lock and muttered (self-consciously) "Unlock." He wasn't sure how theft featured in the general view of things, but he figured that he could, if pressed, argue that it was really all for a good cause. Loyalty to crew, and that.

The lid sprang open, and Jack took out a very familiar looking pulsing bag, which he put in his coat. Replacing the box under the bed, he willed himself to Norrington, who was alone in his office, scribbling something or other on pieces of paper. A smirk, and he slipped behind him. Fingers stroked gently over the nape of Norrington's neck. The man yelped, and jumped, looking around wildly. Jack smirked.

"Sir?"

"I'm fine. Minor accident," Norrington called, glaring about him, whispering, "Jack?"

Jack tiptoed and murmured next to his ear, "Get molested by things ye can't see very often, d'ye?" He emphasized this by briefly flicking his tongue over a shaved chin, and dodging quickly back as a hand swiped through the air. There was an odd tingle as the tips passed right through an outstretched arm, and Jack's smirk widened. Not only invisible, but also conveniently insubstantial, it seemed. Miyako, wherever she was, would have been proud.

An issue to consider for another time. Jack sidled close, ignoring groping hands and a darkening Commodorial expression, popping open one button on the immaculate white shirt and rubbed his fingers over the warm stomach. A hand clutched ineffectively over and through his wrist, then Norrington sighed. "That's unfair."

"Aye." Jack nodded, forgetting that he'd technically come here just to deliver the heart. "An' ye'd be wantin' t'sit down now, James."

"Why?" Suspiciously.

"Because some o' th'things m'goin' t'do t'the other James, I don't think ye can handle standin' up."

"Oh."

"Now ye just pull th'chair up a wee bit more, an' I'd scoot under th'desk… eh, th'marine outside, 'e has sharp ears, aye? Think ye can be a wee bit quiet?"

"Jack. I can't… _Jack_, this is my _office_."

"Never thought o' doin' things over yer desk? Under it? Wi' just me under it?"

"Not _practically_…"

"Well now we're goin' t'do it practically. An' probably… mm… agnostically, severally an' grammatically."

"You can't do… _Jack, stop that_… this _agnostically_."

"Funny, I thought ye'd be objectin' over th'grammatically bit."

"No, I can see where you might be… be… getting that from. But… but 'agnostically'?"

"Mm?"

"_…Oh God._"

"Mm-hmm."

--

"Going t'stab it now?" Jack asked. They were (a little scandalously) all in Elizabeth's private chambers, sometime after the exceedingly polite dinner. Said politeness could probably have been sliced up and served – it seemed to have crystallized around every guest when Lady Katherine had greeted the Commodore by his first name (late, and apologizing, eyes fixed on the lady until she prettily forgave him). There had been no hint whatsoever that the twins had noticed the heart was missing.

William hefted the bag in his hand, his eyes going to his father's dagger where it lay on Elizabeth's dresser. "I was thinking, actually, after you told me that Governor Swann's angel was missing."

"We looked around, couldn't see her," Elizabeth agreed, looking to Gibbs, Marty and Cotton.

Gibbs nodded. "Aye, an' Marty even took th'gem t'walk around th'harder t'reach areas o' Port Royal. Nothin'."

"So now what?" Norrington asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the feminine room.

"I was thinking, we'd go ask Tia," William said, sounding a little embarrassed. "I know, I shouldn't make it a habit, and Heaven knows what I'm going to use to pay her, but I can't think of any way else to know. Since, well, Elizabeth and I suspect that maybe, maybe she was kidnapped by Captain Ichiro."

"Or left wi' him?" Jack suggested, unable to come up with a way for an angel to kidnap another angel.

"Maybe unwillingly," Elizabeth countered. "Under threat."

"He's probably unlikely t'harm her," Jack pointed out. "Though ye might want t'watch yer da' carefully, in case he's as prone as th'Commodore here o' getting into trouble without a guardian." Norrington snorted.

"Well. I rather, er, feel obligated," Elizabeth muttered. "Since she's been watching over Father for so long. I want to thank her."

"Pretty sure angels don't expect thanks," Jack said dryly, gesturing at his own wings. "'Tis part o' th'job."

"I'm sure you're worried about her, Jack, or you wouldn't have asked us to check around for her," Elizabeth said challengingly. Jack grimaced.

"We-ell… m'not worried enough t'go chasin' after her," he muttered. "Ye don't even have a ship. How're ye goin' t'find her?"

"We can get a ship," William pointed at the heart. "Your _Black Pearl_."

Gibbs gasped. Jack frowned, suppressing the instant thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing his beloved ship again. "Ye don't have a cap'n."

"Uh. We have you," William said cautiously.

"Can't leave Port Royal, mate," Jack pointed vaguely in Norrington's general direction. The Turners looked sharply at the Commodore.

Norrington sighed. "I can't leave Port Royal to go on a wild goose chase over the high seas in search for a guardian angel who may or may not have been kidnapped. Especially since I've only recently been reinstated."

"James…" Elizabeth pouted.

"No," Norrington said firmly. "This has even less… sense, than the last time you made an appeal to me, Elizabeth. And I already have what I want." Fist unwrapped briefly to show the Hell's Emerald. "The both of you can go after her yourself. Though… the last time already nearly put Governor Swann close to a nervous breakdown, so I would really advise inaction."

"An' I thought ye both were all fer getting married as soon as possible," Jack put in. "Also, 'tis all speculation. Why not ye go speak t'Tia first?"

"I suppose we could raise the _Pearl_ and captain it ourselves," Elizabeth said with a sidelong glance. "She's faster and safer than the _Flying Dutchman_."

Jack grimaced. Envy, jealousy and irrational irritation warred within him. "She's fairly beat up. Ye'd have t'get her repaired."

"Port Royal has a decent shipyard," William said innocently. "And given the unfortunate decease of the original owner, I suppose we're really the last people left who can legally pay for repairs in a legitimate shipyard."

"But… but…"

"Ye said that… angels can't leave their sphere o' influence?" Gibbs asked suddenly, slowly, before the incipient and usually rare Jack Sparrow explosion.

"Aye?" Jack snapped.

"Then how did this… Miyako… leave?"

"S'pose th'Cap'n o' th'_World's End_ has some sort o' way."

"Could be that Tia has a way, too," Gibbs said cheerfully. "Then ye can go, aye? I can get William an' 'Lizabeth there easy on any seaworthy ship. Or make it there by meself, me an' Marty an' Cotton, if th'two o' ye want t'get hitched first."

Jack didn't need to look at Norrington to know that the other man was frowning. "Abandonin' me duty may drop me in Hell, mate."

"Could be that helpin' t'rescue a fellow angel could earn ye some points, Cap'n," Gibbs pointed out.

That was true. Jack hesitated, clearly torn. Norrington was the one to speak, quietly. "I can take care of myself in Port Royal until you return, Jack. Honor dictates that you help a lady in need, even if this… this… quest seems beyond rationality."

"T'aint no self respectin' pirate pay any heed t'honor," Jack pointed out, but he sighed. "Right. Ye lot get t'Tia, then. See what she says. We'd wait fer ye t'come back, have th'weddin' party, mebbe save ye some cake."

"But…" Elizabeth pouted. "Since, well, since you're um, dead, Jack, we rather wanted Gibbs to be the best man. Also, well, since…" She glanced quickly at Norrington. "I'm sorry, James."

He inclined his head, stiffly. "It wouldn't be appropriate, anyway."

"S'pose ye could have a small, quiet one first, then have th'big party later," Jack suggested. "Don't need a big weddin', d'ye?"

"No," Elizabeth admitted, linking her hand with William's arm. "It'd really be a formality also, after what we've already gone through."

"Tomorrow," Jack decided.

"So fast?" William yelped.

"Tomorrow," Elizabeth echoed, mirroring Jack's determination.

--

A decidedly blasphemous oath escaped Norrington when, as they retired to his bedchamber for the night, they saw Barachiel seated primly at his desk, examining the scroll painting of the _Black Pearl_ with interest, three sets of wings folded behind him. He waved for them to sit, at two chairs on the opposite side of the table that hadn't previously been there.

"Archangel Barachiel," Jack said, in a manner of introduction and as a warning. Norrington glanced at him, then sat in the chair indicated, arms folded, fingers tight around the Hell's Emerald.

"Captain Sparrow. James Norrington," Barachiel tapped at his lip with the white rose. "Developments have become… fairly unexpected."

Jack sat cautiously in the chair, as if expecting it to melt at any moment. "Aye?"

"Not only have you broken just about every significant rule in guardianship, you have rather indirectly caused another guardian angel to shirk her duties in some half-baked idea of self-sacrifice," Barachiel said wearily, "An angel, mind you, who previously had all the makings of one set for fast-track promotion."

"I don't see why what happened t'Miyako has t'be seen as me fault," Jack protested.

"There were no other anomalies in the calculations," Barachiel said flatly. "And the fact that you have flagrantly breached the very idea of the nature of this specialized form of fiduciary duty already puts you well into the red, Captain Sparrow."

"I wouldn't say that was…" Norrington began, but was cut off as Jack clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Aye, I know that," he said, with a grin, even as Norrington yanked the hand away. "I ain't sayin' that bit ain't me fault."

"On the other hand, your, as you put it, 'fans in heaven' have found the whole episode to be highly entertaining, and you have, I suppose, removed a little of the tarnish on your soul. Learned something in the way of morals and self-sacrifice. Managed to arrange events enough to extricate your charge from a very difficult problem and yet retain an acceptable modicum of happiness and order," Barachiel said, a little grudgingly. "It's been decided that you may redeem the little point about the breach of duty via ensuring the return of Miyako to her duties."

"My… charge ain't interested in leavin' Port Royal," Jack said, settling back in his chair.

"Yes," Barachiel nodded, "Nor should he be. And by next month there should be a few guardians who may be free to take up existing cases – for the time being I am sure I can get one already in Port Royal to take on double duties. You, however, as much as I feel it is unnecessary and a potential waste of power – not to mention a farce of the system – are due to be promoted. Again. To a full angel. So you can travel freely, up until you ensure the return and well-being of Miyako." Dryly. "I would rather send a few… available angels to do so, but that sword Negation is fairly inconvenient."

"Awlright," Jack grinned. "So, do I get more wings? A flamin' sword?"

Barachiel held out his hand, and a familiar scroll appeared in it. The silver darkened, until it resembled bronze. Jack frowned. He didn't feel any different. There was a sudden sound, however, from Norrington, which resembled, suspiciously, a stifled guffaw.

"What?"

"You have a _halo_," Norrington said, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he took deep breaths to prevent himself from laughing. A few chuckles escaped him as Jack automatically attempted, ineffectively, to look behind him.

"Nothing's funny about having a halo," Barachiel said severely.

"I have a question," Norrington said, evidently deciding to change the subject in the face of two irate angels. "Is Jack really here… as a test? For admittance into Heaven? Because it seems – forgive me if I'm wrong – that we are taught, in Church, that admittance into Hell is fairly easy, and there are no second chances."

"Some things get lost in translation, I suppose. We tried for a while to change a few popularly held misconceptions with some miracles – and with the whole Lamb of God business, but it seems that word of mouth tends to lose details after a while. I believe a more heavy-handed clergy would also attract more… flock. After all, if word leaked out that the scales are not as weighted as they seem, perhaps the religions would die out." Barachiel said absently, as if this had been an old topic that he was used to debating.

"Still, sometimes I wonder. Does nothing about eternal torment strike you humans as being remotely unfair?" Barachiel inquired. "That for an eyeblink's worth of life in the span of the infinite you get committed to eternal torture? No, James Norrington – the system is based on forgiveness. Hell and Purgatory – and sometimes, Heaven – are occasionally metaphorical, or personal to a soul. Often, once sufficient penance has been met, they are merely reborn for another chance – or ascend into Heaven."

Dryly. "In Jack Sparrow's case, it was found that happily, his good heart outweighs any amorality he may care to attribute to his personality. And, at the same time, there was the matter of injustice to you personally, for the brief if untimely reassignation of your guardian angel. His assignation was a case of killing, as that morbid phrase goes, two birds with one stone."

"So he _is _here as an apology," Norrington said, with a faint grin of irritating triumph and a glance at Jack.

"Partially," Jack muttered, his ego bruised. "Does that mean I wasn't expected t'keep t'the rules?" Indignant. And he'd tried so bloody hard.

"Quite a few of us were rather surprised that you managed to restrain yourself for so long, actually," Barachiel remarked unmercifully.

"Then why give me grief over th' breach o' duty?"

"Even if it's anticipated, a breach is still a breach, Captain Sparrow."

"Ye just don't want t'get yer hands dirty."


	12. Conversations with Jack Sparrow

Chapter 12

Conversations with Jack Sparrow

William and Elizabeth were married in two days, Governor Swann looking so stricken at the suggestion of a quiet ceremony that they conceded a compromise – the guests already at Port Royal were invited, with the planned soiree changed to a wedding party. The ceremony was likely not as elaborate as Governor Swann would have liked, but with the couple so radiantly happy, Jack suspected the old man likely passed over it after a while. Gibbs was one of two best men – the visible one. Jack stood next to his former crew member(s) and wished them well.

The guests had somehow managed to step up to the occasion – Jack saw, later at the reception, Lady Katherine resplendent in a gem-encrusted cream dress that likely would have paid for extensive refitting of the _Black Pearl_ several times over. In contrast, the Earl was immaculate in his tailored clothes, minimally embroidered, as if to frame or reflect his sister's splendor.

Jack retired with Gibbs, Marty and Cotton at the blacksmith to drink and reminisce when the soiree was well under way, and make plans, leaving the Turners and Norrington to fend for themselves. He supposed that it was rather odd to do so, given that planning for the event had taken up so much of his recent afterlife, but not only did it seem a little awkward, in the absence of his co-conspirator, the soiree was, after all, really for Norrington. To be hopefully enjoyed without the inevitable glances in his direction. Besides, the Hell's Emerald, secreted somewhere in Norrington's clothing, made him uncomfortable.

"Th'lass said she was going t'announce that she an' young Will be takin' a little trip off t'England, on a ship cap'n'd by me," Gibbs said, poking himself in the chest and taking another deep draught of the free rum that the Turners had provided. The whelps had anticipated that the pirates would feel uncomfortable surrounded by the trappings of high society, and had left a remarkable amount of rum and portions of cake, finger foods and various edibles in the blacksmith. They were learning.

"Aye?" Jack was busy helping himself to something that looked oddly yellow but which tasted of prawn.

"Pieces o' eight!" the parrot squawked, from where it was perched up on the sturdy beams.

"Aye, an' 'Lizabeth's father agreed, if a little reluctantly," Gibbs said dryly. "She didn't exactly explain t'him what she was goin' t'do, but I think he gets th'idea that she be off on another 'madcap adventure', think he said."

"He bends t'her will a little too easy," Jack said absently, trying out some weird spirally flaky pastry thing that tasted of apple. Hm. On the whole, he rather preferred the slightly spicy beef concoction best. He ate another, then washed it down with rum. Wine was for the deprived.

"That way we can all be headed t'look fer this lost lass," Gibbs nodded. "We'd set off in a sloop, head t'Tortuga, an' there we'd raise yer ship. Seein' as it may be a hassle t'do any repairs over here, what wi' all th'forms that'd have t'be filled in. After that… yer th'Cap'n."

"We go see Tia," Jack nodded. "Don't know what t'give her."

"What about a feather?" Marty asked, with a sidelong glance at Jack's folded wings. He grinned. "An angel's feather. Sure that be worth somethin'."

Jack made a face. "M'sure that's goin' t'hurt, so, how 'bout 'no'."

"Come on, Jack," Gibbs grinned, "Can ye see o' any other way yer goin' t'top that gift o' an undead monkey?"

"Aye, ye dug yerself into a hole wi' that one, Cap'n."

"Pieces o' eight!"

"I don't _have_ t'top me gifts each time," Jack growled. "Mebbe I just steal th'Commodore's coat. Sure she'd like that. Nice material. Pretty. An' he has several."

"Not magical, an' won't even fit her," Gibbs said dismissively. "Ye know what she likes. Strange little gewgaws. Ye used t'spend ages just lookin' fer somethin' that'd catch her eye."

"The lot o' ye just want t'see me pull out one o' th'feathers."

"Pieces o' eight!"

"We'd help, if ye need," Marty said, with an evil glint. "Just borrow that Hell's Emerald, aye?"

"It'd be swift an' relatively painless," Gibbs agreed. Jack edged away, up against the anvil.

"None o' ye are comin' anywhere near me wings!"

--

"Leaving?" Norrington asked quietly, without turning around. Jack picked up James the kitten – really now James the cat – from where it was clawing at a boot that mere humans would not see, and placed it gently in the balcony, where it leaped down into the garden and stalked away, stiff-legged in indignation.

"Aye. I came back t'tell ye. We'd be settin' sail tomorrow."

"How's she?" Norrington sat at his desk – it looked as though he had been previously going through correspondence. He didn't look up, but Jack could feel the palpable sense of hurt, from being more or less ignored for weeks, with only infrequent visits. The _Pearl_ was the possessive sort, even if she rather liked the Commodore, and she was a little leery of prolonged and regular absences, so soon after yet another separation from her chosen Captain.

"Ready," Jack shrugged, and perched on a corner of the desk, peering upside-down at correspondence – which was quickly and pointedly shuffled neatly, covered. "How's Lady Katherine an' her brother?"

"Requesting my presence in Montserrat through carefully worded replies in excessively perfumed letters," Norrington said dryly. "The mother, apparently, must approve."

Jack grinned. "Don't think there'd be a problem there, James. What 'bout yer side o' th'family?"

"I wrote letters to London," Norrington shrugged. "I think my parents may plan a trip to Jamaica, when they receive it, as much as Father will complain excessively about the boredom of a long voyage." A shudder. "Not to mention that the little act may fool my mother, but I have doubts about my father. I'm not looking forward to the… interview, though of course the twins believe themselves up to the challenge."

"Beckett?"

"Something very curious happened at the East India Company headquarters a day after your last visit. There was a fire, and a death of some man whose last known occupation was a locksmith over at Kingston. Very localized fire – little damage to the building in total – but it'd been so hot that much of the deceased… well, melted." Norrington rubbed at the bridge of his nose, as if trying to suppress a bad memory. "Naturally, the twins failed to mention that opening the lock without the real key is… magically… bad for one's health. And Beckett's been recalled to London." This last got a smirk.

"Oh?"

"Turns out there's something very pressing that he has to do there, perhaps permanently," Norrington picked at the edges of his stack of papers. "Or so Victor said. Very smugly, I might add, so I suppose there's something else, probably highly unethical, which they've decided not to tell me. I gather they're already planning to somehow relieve him of the book, and perhaps of the little issue of the East India Company offices over here at Port Royal. A summer retreat, I take it."

"Happy endin' fer ye," Jack said, relieved. He didn't want to leave business in Port Royal unfinished while he bent his attention to his latest endeavor.

"No, Jack. It isn't." Norrington finally looked up at him. Anguish, longing, frustration. "You're not really in it."

"I can visit," Jack picked up an aristocratic hand and turned it, palm up, tracing the curve of the life-line. "An' ye have a job. It'd work out."

"Afterwards?"

"Seems ye don't know anythin' 'bout bein' a pirate, despite havin' enjoyed some illustrious company o' th'piratical sort," Jack said with a quick grin that failed to seem mischievous. "Ye shouldn't think too much o' what will be, but what is, right now."

"I'd worry."

"Ye can come."

"Don't ask me to."

"I ain't. I'm askin' ye t'trust me t'come back."

"And after?"

"Don't ask me 'bout after. Don't know."

"Jack."

"James. I've been thinkin'." Jack exhaled. "This idea o' private heavens."

"Yes?"

"I'm already in mine," Jack said, with a faint half-smile, and poked Norrington's nose. "There's ye, there's th'_Pearl_, th'whelps are safe, an' there's th'wide open sea, fer me t'match wits an' speed against any in me way. I have somethin' t'do t'pass time. An' I have th'ability t'visit ye whenever I want."

Norrington frowned, as he thought this over. "It seems very… unlikely. And unusual. And I'd rather thought that the whole concept of Heaven was that it was a separate… reality, from Earth."

"Aye, well, I doubt t'would be much o' a Heaven fer me, wi'out those aforementioned little details."

Dryly. "Then again, there's really nothing… common, about you. So I suppose that if you were to get a private Heaven, there would be nothing regular about that, either."

"Ye take me point, then."

"It still seems illogical… but I do." Irritably. "Though I can't say I'm pleased at the level of attention."

"It'd get better, once th'_Pearl_ is out at sea again."

"I'm beginning to feel… unappreciated. Seeing as you're meant to be an… apology from the powers that be."

"Aye, s'pose I could remedy that. Right now."

A snort. "Really."

"Tell me that again later."

--

"So?"

"Better. But still…"

"Unsatisfied? Why, James. Didn't see ye for th'insatiable sort. Or am I beginnin' t'slip now?"

"… I didn't mean it that way."

"Again?"

"No. _No_. I have work. Which means. I need to wake up. Tomorrow. _Jack_."

"Ye started it, what wi' all th'talk o' feelin' unappreciated."

"… _Jack_!"

--

"We got a location off Tia. So we're off, goin' t'cross over t'wards Cathay."

"Doesn't the _World's End_ usually haunt the Pacific?"

"Seems they're headed back t'the Land o' th'Risin' Sun. Tia doesn't know why."

"Who is this Tia again?"

"Why, jealous, luv?"

"…"

"Don't need t'sulk, mate. She's a voodoo practitioner. Lots o' interestin' little items 'bout her place, an' she knows lots o' things. Have t'be paid to part wi' anythin', though. Last time, I traded that stupid monkey."

"What did you trade this time?"

"I was goin' t'give her yer spare coat, but turns out she didn't like it."

"… so _that's _where it went!"

"She asked fer one o' me feathers."

"Did it hurt?"

"Not much."

"Then why so… irritable?"

"I hate it when other people guess things right 'fore meself."

--

"What the _hell_ is that?"

"'Tis a book. Illustrated."

"… I know that. Good _Lord_, Jack, I'm surprised the woodcuts used in the printing of this… this… this _thing _didn't spontaneously combust in the making!"

"Sadly enough nobody's translated it into English, yet, but this copy has some notes in English 'round th'back."

"And where did you acquire this… this…"

"Bombay, mate. Thought ye'd like some souvenirs from our little trip 'round th'world, lookin' fer ways t'reacquire lost angels."

"… I don't want souvenirs, if this is your idea of them."

"'Tis an ancient, standard book o' love in Sanskrit literature, mate."

"That may be so, but… good _Lord_. Take it back."

"… no. 'Sides, thought ye'd be curious t'try some o' those."

"I'm not sure some of these are even athletically possible, let alone between men. How many pictures are… I mean, how many…"

"Think there're sixty-four."

"Good _Lord_."

"I like that one."

"… _Hell _no. Jack. If you leave this… this book with me, I'm burning it."

"But getting a copy was bloody troublesome, luv!"

"And then sweeping the ashes into the sea."

"… fine. I keep it, but we get t'try some o' th'stuff I marked out."

"… why should I agree to that?"

"Seein' as yer rejectin' a gift that I spent a while tryin' to acquire, luv. Soothin' hurt feelings, an' all that."

"… you _can't_ be upset over this."

"Mebbe I am."

"… Fine."

"Great! _That _one."

"… no."

"Aww, c'mon. Ye can even top."

"… _no_."

--

"Twins didn't say nothin' 'bout th'heart goin' missin'?"

"It's a bit late to ask me this now, isn't it? Seeing as it's been… months?"

"Better late than never, mate."

"They had their suspicions, given how the Turners took off after their wedding, but their incursions into the politics of London seem to be distracting them suitably. And they have their book back, so I suppose they aren't really that interested any longer in a mythical heart. What happened to the heart, anyway?"

"Ain't it a little late t'be askin' me?"

"Like you said, better late than never."

"Stabbed. Very interestin' vortex o' magic. Some small islands over near Barbados will never be th'same again. Got Bootstrap – that's Will's da' – back, as well, an' human, though he has a tendency t'walk a wee bit funny now an' walk into doors. Currently he's one o' th'crew again."

"Ah. So that's one supernatural pirate threat peacefully ended."

"One fer th'books, that. Speakin' o' books, did ye ever peek into th'twin's?"

"I gave them the key to the box, didn't I?"

"Sure that if ye asked them fer it, they'd give it t'ye."

"No, I didn't look. I'm not sure I want to know."

"Are ye sure yer sane, mate? _I'll _have looked. _Anybody _wi' a healthy curiosity would'a looked."

"I'm not sure that Lady Katherine would have proposed marriage to _you_, Jack. Let alone entrust you with a book of dangerous secrets."

"Ye'd never know. M'quite popular wi' th'ladies."

"During my sojourn in Tortuga, I overheard much evidence to the contrary. Violent evidence."

"Aye, well, ye have t'be popular wi' th'ladies t'get so much… feelin'. Bad or no. Say, mate, what were ye doin' pickin' up information 'bout me habits over at Tortuga, anyway?"

"… I drank in the taverns. Mere eavesdropping."

"Right…"

"However I know your ego would dictate the contrary."

"'Course."

"… you even admit it."

"Nothin' wrong wi' not bein' modest."

"I do trust you aren't extending your… your track record with women."

"'Course not. Don't need to. Whenever I'm in th'need o' some fun I just come back here."

"…"

"Somehow I knew that'd make ye sulk."

"It's not a laughing matter. You're suggesting that you only visit whenever…"

"Ye know, for someone so pretty an' engaged t'marry into rarefied society ye have really low self-esteem, James."

"Does that bother you?"

"The low self-esteem? No. Cute. Marryin'? A little, but I guess she's as good as any. Didn't see why ye still had t'go along wi' it though, wi' Beckett out o' th'way."

"It would be… rude, to say the least, not to, after they've extended me so much trust."

"… aye."

"Possessive?"

"Ye have no right t'smirk like that after sulkin' over me 'track record', mate. 'Sides, 'tis different, here. Ye have t'sleep wi' her sometime."

"Jack, you know that it's only because…"

"Aye, I know. An' m'sure I'd be glad t'watch over any wee James Norringtons. Children change a man, though."

"If you're thinking that I'd…"

"Could be. Just thinkin', could be."

"I won't."

"We'll see. Weddin' in half a year, aye?"

"Just to go through the motions of engagement. I may be accompanying them to North Carolina next month."

"Funny place fer a romantic holiday, mate. Pirate town."

"Quite a few of the members of 'rarefied society' like to… slum, I suppose it's called. They think it'd be _so _very exciting."

"Ye mean they're there t'scope out black markets, an' avenues o' illicit profit."

"That's why I insisted on going with them."

"Yer not goin' t'be lettin' them have any fun?"

"Fun only in moderate, sane amounts."

"Babysitter."

"Says the person accompanying the Turners on a mad trip across the world. How's lamppost duty, Jack?"

"Now that's just low, mate."

--

"Why did I ever let you talk me into keeping that bloody book?"

"Why?"

"… _Katherine_ found it."

"An' what she be doin', pokin' 'bout yer place?"

"Victor wanted to share some very expensive cognac that he acquired off a trader from London, and while we were talking in the parlor she slipped away to explore. I never thought she'd… enter my… my… well. And wherever did a lady of her breeding learn how to pick locks?"

"So… where's th'book now?"

"They insisted on keeping it."

"Don't need to look so mortified, luv. Sure they're more experienced wi' th'sort o' thing than ye are."

"… that's not the point."

"Was she scandalized?"

"No, they both thought it was incredibly funny. And 'educational', I believe they said it was."

"Ah, there ye go."

"…"

"Somethin' else?"

"… they're going to get it translated."

"…"

"This is no cause for hilarity, Jack. It's all your damned fault."

"Th'book's not all 'bout sex, James. 'Tis also a treatise on love, an' relationships. Very scholarly."

"… I bet."

"Should borrow th'translation from them, ye should."

"… no."

"It'd be very edifyin'."

"…_no_."

--

"Accomplished the mission?"

"Aye, how'd ye guess? We're still over 'round Cathay."

"Governor Swann's been far less accident prone lately."

"Aye, she's back. 'Tis a tale o' valor, chivalry, swordfightin', cannons an' all that. Very interestin'. Lots o' treasure. Want t'hear?"

"I'll get the story off the Turners when they return."

"… yer no fun at all, mate."

"So what now, Jack?"

"I'd be droppin' off th'Turners over at Port Royal, an' headin' off t'Tortuga t'pick up some crew."

"Nothing from Heaven?"

"That's th'rub, James. See, after we rescued th'lass, that Archangel Barachiel turned up on deck. Seems due to certain unethical methods used that were absolutely not me fault or suggestion, we have t'help them retrieve some item or other somewhere, no location given."

"Unethical methods."

"Definitely nothin' that was me fault."

"No, I didn't mean that. I meant… don't you feel that this… errand running for Heaven is a little… suspicious?"

"Meanin' that they seem t'be findin' all sorts o' things fer old Jack t'do?"

"Yes."

"S'pose it's damage control, rather than lettin' an angel do whatever he likes on Earth, aye? An' I might be a wee bored otherwise, wi' nothin' t'do."

"Private heavens, Jack?"

"Like ye said."

--

"You docked. At Port Royal. Openly."

"Been wantin' t'do that fer ages, luv. An' 'sides, on th'paperwork ye can see 'tis th'property o' Mr an' Mrs Turner."

"… I confess to being a little surprised when I saw that."

"T'was worth it t'see yer expression, luv. Ship's open to yer inspection."

"My inspection, or the Navy's?"

"Yers, o' course. An' I'd be expectin' ye t'be doin' some very thorough inspectin' o' th'Cap'n's cabin, p'haps tonight."

"…"

"Seein' as ye'd need t'properly certify some things 'fore me an me _Pearl_ go off t'look fer th'fragment o' th'Word, or whatever Barachiel called it."

"Certify."

"Properly."

"Like?"

"Th'health o' th'Cap'n o' me fine ship, o' course."

"… _right_. And this… certification can't be done in my chambers?"

"Me cabin is far more comfortable than yer chambers."

"Only if you swear that you won't weigh anchor during the… certification."

"Don't trust me?"

"Only to resort to unethical methods of persuasion."

"Ye hurt me, mate, ye really do."

"Too bad."

"… _awlright_."

--

"What'd be yer private heaven?"

"… must you always ask complicated questions after… after sex?"

"Exhausted already? Yer only in yer thirties, mate."

"…"

"Must say, never realized that Commodore Norrington be so prone t'poutin'."

"I don't pout."

"Sure I had a mirror 'round here somewhere…"

"_Jack_."

"… up fer another round?"

"_No_. But if it'd make you shut up and let me sleep… my private heaven?"

"Aye."

"It'd have you, of course. And the sea. The rest of the detail I haven't really thought about."

"Me, as a pirate?"

"Not sure, but it seems too intrinsic to your nature to remove even in the context of a private heaven."

"Ye don't sound so convinced, mate. Don't tell me it's really somethin' 'bout the lines o' me bein' an Admiral in th'Navy, stationed also… oh, mebbe in Kingston, an' prone t'molestin' pretty Commodores under his command?"

"… I can't even _begin_ to gather how you could have concluded that. And no, that is so off the mark that…"

"Lieutenant Jack Sparrow, then?"

"… This line of speculation is utterly…"

"Personally I think 'Admiral' Jack Sparrow sounds better."

"… Jack, the very _idea _is…"

"Think I'd look good in th'hat. An' all that brocade."

"You, in the Navy? It'll be ridiculous."

"Smolderin' glances over a parade o' redcoats, or over official correspondence. Very romantic, I'd bet."

"… I'm going to sleep."

"Seein' as yer private heaven's only specified details are… me, an' th'sea, could be yer getting dibs a wee bit early, aye?"

"I don't have you around as much as I'd like."

"… Someday, love. Ye know when."

"I'll hold you to that, pirate."

"Aye."

-fin-

Final notes: Will I be continuing GA? Probably not. I was planning on leaving things open, but it just flowed naturally to a conclusion. Sorry about how it seemed to run into a wall somewhere around 10+ - I've concluded that writing fluff isn't my strong point, somewhere around when writing GA seemed to be more for providing an excuse to draw Angel!Jack. :3 I'd be taking another break from long fics and sticking to sparrington art and beckington short (hah!) fics. Sadly, while writing GA, I felt that Fathoms very thoroughly killed the plotbunny in me for writing further lengthy plot sparrington, at least for the time being. XD;; Thanks for reading, and all the lovely comments.


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